


The Book of Mormont: Cub

by endlessmuse



Series: The Book of Mormont [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Azor Ahai, Multi, Trilogy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2016-11-04
Packaged: 2018-07-10 18:35:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 17
Words: 58,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6999823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endlessmuse/pseuds/endlessmuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The tale of Ser Jorah Mormont using a mix of book and show content. Book One, The Cub, revolves around Jorah's early life up to his meeting of Daenerys Targaryen. This series works under the theory that Ser Jorah is Azor Ahai. We've read or watched Daenerys' perspective of her knight. It's time we read his side of the tale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Note:
> 
> Hello, gentle reader(s)! Allow me a quick explanation for this fic. There’s a fantastic theory on how Jorah Mormont fits as Azor Ahai that you can listen to and watch on Youtube. I wish I could post a quick link here, but alas, Fanfiction doesn’t support such a feature. For those who question the validity of this fic, please, go see that fan theory on Youtube. I found it quite convincing, especially when considering the fact that GRRM hates the usual fantasy tropes and set out trying to subvert them. What better way than making one of the heroes of the books someone who has only ever been in our peripheral? Someone whom we are given just enough information about not to consider a stranger? This fanfic is a mix of book lore and shore lore. Though its emphasis is on Show-Jorah, I am attempting to use facts from the book to create a concrete backstory and future for the character with my own fictional imaginings. Once the story reaches the timeline that the show presents—Jorah with the Dothraki, for example—my story will follow along the show’s story arch. Everything before Season One and after Season Five, will be my own imagining based on lore that I am utilizing from the books. Obviously, this is a Pro-Jorah fanfic, and since I know there are many out there who look poorly on his character, I urge you to stop reading here if you think your opinion of the character cannot be swayed by the tale I’m about to tell. Of his character, I will say that what we know of him comes from a biased perspective, not his own. Granted, his own is biased as well, and this fanfic is thus biased. I should also caution those who read that I will be attempting to write in a style similar to GRRM. That being said, the content will be similar, which means you can expect gore, rape, graphic sex, and all the like. If any of these are triggers, either take care with reading, or look elsewhere. My hope is that in reading this fic, which will become a trilogy, my dear reader(s) might consider the character of Jorah in a different light, and perhaps jump onto the “A-Jorah-Hai” theory train. Even if none of that happens, I simply hope you enjoy this work of fiction and the journey it will take you.  
> Thank-you.

Prologue

Bear Island always held a bite of chill no matter what season reigned. Though the winter was ending in the Southron lands, here on this island, the cold and snow blew until the very flames in the fireplace shivered. It was no good time to have a child. Yet the screams of his wife echoed from their chambers all the same. Jeor Mormont sat in the Great Hall of the Mormont Hall. Like the rest of the Hall, the room was crafted solely of wood with a bit of rock to keep it all together. The island had always lacked in available rock, and so whilst many other minor houses still managed to build themselves a castle of rock, the Mormonts continued to thrive in their wooden longhouse. 

Normally, the gruff Bears of the proud House would not complain of the chill air seeping through the cracks and chilling the rooms. However, Jeor found himself wishing they had found a way to import some rock, so a proper castle could be built. His wife was suffering for it. She had been with child for nine months, and now the culmination was upon them. He’d learn if he had an heir or a daughter. Of course, Jeor would happily accept either. The Mormonts prided in the strength and capabilities of their women just as much as their men. If his wife gave him a daughter, she’d be Lady of House Mormont after he died. 

Still, he worried. His wife’s pregnancy had not always been easy. It had been plagued with nightmares and fevers. There was a time when Jeor worried his wife might go mad during it. He could not bear to lose them both. He was not the youngest of men anymore. His hair had turned white early in life, and the hard life he lived were written upon his face in premature lines. Jeor wished to think he was healthy, and he knew as a soldier, that he was, but as a husband and a desperate father, he was not sure if his seed would be strong enough to take should this child not make it. 

The Great Hall was quiet and empty save for himself. The servants hovered in the corridors, obeying his order to only disturb him once the child had been born. For now, Jeor needed the solitude. He stared into the large fireplace that sat at the side of the Hall, nearly taking up the entire wall. Along it Bears were etched into the stone, playing or fighting or simply living in peace. Jeor stared hard into the fire, as if transfixed by the flames. In truth, his mind was in the Godswood near Deepwood Motte, where he took his prayer on special occasions. If Bear Island boasted a weirwood of its own, he’d likely be there, despite the blizzard. 

Instead, he sat beneath the red leaves and before the carved face in the tree in his mind. Silently, he prayed for a strong child and a healthy wife. There was a cautious step beside him. “Lord Mormont,” a tired voice broke through his prayers. The midwife. “Your child has arrived . . . but your lady wife . . . you had best see to her now.”

A cold dread gripped his heart. He opened his eyes and looked up at the midwife. Her eyes were strained from the day long labor. Blood stained her apron and sleeves. Too much blood. Wordlessly, Jeor stood and pushed past the wary servants in the corridor, making his way to his chambers. A few other midwives were cleaning up. A squalling baby was held in his wife’s arms, red with a slathering of blond hair. Between the babe’s legs, he saw a tiny cock. He had a son. “Hush now,” the mother cooed to her child, her voice slurred and tired. “Hush, sweet child.”

She smiled up at him, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. She was far too pale. Never had she been this pale before. Jeor sat on the bed beside her, his expression stoic. Yet his eyes bespoke his helplessness. Weakly, her hand lifted and pressed into the side of his face. “Teach him, Jeor. Love him. He will long for a woman’s love . . . without me . . . you must love him. Bears are fierce, yes, but they have soft underbellies, too.” 

It seemed as though every breath was giving her pain. Jeor hushed her gently, his hand lifting to cup against her own on his cheek. “I will never take another,” he swore to her. “You are my only.” This time the smile did reach her eyes. The words themselves were never spoken. Those of the North found it difficult to say those three words. Yet it was clear in his eyes, and by the gentle squeeze he felt from her hand, she had received his message all the same. 

“Jorah,” she breathed, a gurgle rising up in her lungs. “His name is Jorah.”

Jeor felt her hand slack in his, and her eyes fell shut. A final wheeze left her, and she was still. Grief washed over him, and he bowed his head, still holding her hand to his cheek. He had prayed for a strong child . . . had the price been his wife’s life? The squalling had stopped, as if the child knew something life-altering had just occurred. Yet, he fussed in his mother’s loose arm. Jeor wiped his eyes and set his wife’s hand down upon the bed. Reaching for his son, he carefully picked him up. With his bear of an arm, he could easily fit the small cub in one arm.

The baby made a mumbling sound and squirmed in his arm. Jeor just barely saw a flash of a blue eye. “Jorah Mormont,” he repeated the name. “A prince, if I ever heard one.” His servants came forward then, already bringing forth the things they needed to prepare his wife for burial. His steward came forth, a guarded smile on his lips. 

“What shall I tell your people, my lord?” he asked, “and the people of Westeros?”

Jeor looked him square in the eye. “Tell them the cub was born. Jorah of House Mormont.” The blizzard seemed to kick up outside, the wind howling against the windows and making the candles flicker in the room. “A true son of the North—born of Ice. Tell them . . . their heir has come.”


	2. Right of Passage

Before him, the forest seemed to stretch on endlessly. As a child, he had found it an exciting prospect. How many times had he played Knights and Bandits beneath those trees with the villages’ children? How many times had he raced horses with his oldest cousin, Dacey? It had been a place of play then. Now it stood looming and secretive. The moon above was barely full, the simple sliver of it hardly breaking through the canopy of leaves and making the ground dark and forbidding. Yet, in his heart, Jorah Mormont knew this would not be a test if he did not feel fear. 

Sixteen namedays had passed, and he stood poised to take part in the Mormont Coming-of-Age tradition. It was as ancient as the carving on the gate with a woman wearing a bearskin, a child in one arm and a battleax in the other. Being so isolated, Bear Island had many customs of their own that others might consider odd or foolish. The Coming-of-Age test was likely among the most foolish. How many had died in pursuit of achieving manhood in their peers’ eyes? How many heirs had been lost? 

Perhaps this was not the wisest course of thought. Jorah had to remain focused. Though the test was no longer mandatory, not performing it made one look weak. He was heir to Bear Island. He knew his father expected it of him, and since he was a young boy, Jorah had felt a desperate need to make his father proud. It had always just been his father and himself. One of the first things Jorah had learned when he was a toddler was that he had been responsible for his mother’s death. His birth had not been an easy one, and his life had been paid for by his mother’s death. Perhaps it was because of this that his father did not smile often upon him. 

Though, one might argue, Jeor Mormont did not oft smile at all, regardless. Still, armed with this knowledge, Jorah had tried to become what he thought his father wanted the most—a capable son. So, he had trained hard with the Hall’s Master-of-Arms. By some fortune, he seemed to be gifted with the sword. He learned quickly and gained the wisdom to understand that one must always know and observe one’s opponent if one wished to win against him. Though how he was going to observe and know a bear . . . 

His worries were interrupted by the heavy footsteps behind him. Father. Jorah looked up at the massive form of his father. Though quickly growing himself, his father always seemed to be a giant to him. Dressed in his usual black wool and armor, he looked down at Jorah beneath his bushy eyebrows. “Are you ready?” he asked him, simply. 

Jorah gripped the sword at his hip tightly. Tradition called that a boy may choose whatever weapon he wished to face the bear. As his father before him, Jorah had chosen the sword. “I am, father,” he replied, his voice still squeaking slightly, a sign that his body was struggling to push past the final wall towards puberty. His blond hair was long and falling past his ears and neck. He had it tucked behind his ears now, his smooth face only barely threatened by the stubble beginning to grow in. 

Jeor drew in a breath, his eyes hard and full of ceremony. “I, Jeor of House Mormont, Lord of Bear Island, bless you, Jorah of House Mormont, on your journey. I pray the Old Gods lend you strength of arm and sure of foot. As the Mormonts of old, and those to come, go now into the forest a boy . . . and return a man.” 

With the old words spoken, Jorah turned and trotted off into the forest, the trees enveloping him quickly. He had naught but his sword at his waist and a leather set of armor. No supplies and no aid. The test was simple enough in its requirements. He had to track down one of the many bears that shared the island with the Mormonts and kill it. Though infinitely practical in many of their ways, the Mormonts were especially superstitious about the creature they displayed on their banners. They believed that a spiritual connection existed between man and beast. 

In order to access this spiritual connection, a man must kill a bear and remove its fur and a claw or fang. The meat would be carried on one’s back and returned to the Hall. The fur would eventually cover his tomb, as it did so many other Mormonts who had successfully completed the tradition. As for the claw or fang, Jorah would carry it with him forever. Within it, or so the Mormont tales went, the spirit of the bear would be captured, and in battle, Jorah would be able to call upon the spirit of the bear to make himself that much more fearsome and strong. When he died, the spirit of the bear would help lead him into the promised land of peace and rest, keeping his soul safe through the journey. 

For Jorah, he was more concerned with his reputation. He was young, he knew, to be taking on this task. But his father had at his age, and he intended not to disappoint his father by waiting for the usual age to undergo the test—that of eighteen years. For those who never performed the test, though they were not outright ridiculed, they were never quite regarded with the same respect than those who did. If he could do this, Bear Island would see the man that would one day lead them after his father passed. Jorah hoped his father might see him, too. 

Quickly, he hurried through the forest, putting as much distance as he could between himself and the Hall. Though his people had set up homes and small villages all along the coast of Bear Island, he knew that the bears had a heavier concentration on the southern part of the island. There wasn’t a sound beside his heavy footfalls and panting breath in the forest. Not even the crickets were chirping. All was fast asleep. Jorah hiked past the furthest point he had ever been in the forest—when not following one of the roads. 

From here, he started to leave little marks on the trees, so he did not lose his way. Looking up at the sky, he could barely see through to the top to the stars to gain a sense of direction. Relying on his etched marks, he moved at a slower pace. It was not just bears he had to worry about on this island. Sometimes, shadowcats prowled Bear Island. He’d make a fine meal for them if they caught him unawares. There were sometimes slavers and pirates who snuck onto the island and took a few days’ refuge in the deep part of the island where no one might see their business as well. Jorah rather wished to avoid running into a group of five or more pirates intent on keeping their business a secret. 

To his fortune, he ran into neither. The sun was beginning to cut traces of light in pink and gold across the sky when he finally heard some loud rustling. Jorah froze immediately and ducked down behind some brush. There was a sniffing and quiet growling. Someone was foraging. Jorah gripped his sword tightly in his hand, a nervous sweat adding to the sheen already caused by physical stress. He knew that surprise was the only way to victory. Though he was strong, he was not as strong as a bear. Head-on would be the death of him. 

Slowly, he unsheathed his sword, but his clammy hand made the hilt slip in his grasp. Jorah frowned at that. Looking down at himself, he tore a strip from his tunic under his armor and wrapped it around his hand. Satisfied, he held the sword more securely and peeked out from behind the brush. As he had hoped, a large brown bear was standing on its two feet. He was massive and obviously trying to reach an old comb from honeybees atop a lower branch of the tree. Jorah felt his moment was at hand. 

With the bear distracted, he remained crouched as he quietly approached the bear. His legs screamed at the trying position within seconds, but he grit his teeth through the pain. His heart was pumping so loudly, he feared the bear might hear it. But it was not his heart the bear heard, but an ill-timed snap of a twig that his boot stepped on. Jorah felt a brief sense of dread that was quickly replaced by unadulterated fear as the bear turned its big head and stared directly at him. Immediately, the bear roared and turned to fend him off. 

Jorah dodged a swipe of the massive claw by rolling to his left. The claw caught on his back though, and he hissed as he felt a faint stinging along his spine. Continuing to roll away, Jorah scrambled back up to his feet as the bear charged at him. Crying out in surprise, he stumbled back, holding his sword in front of him protectively. The bear roared again, then stepped back a few steps. Thinking that perhaps the bear was just threatening him, Jorah relaxed only for a moment before the bear rushed forward in another charge. 

The guttural and ear-shattering sound of its roar had him wincing. The bear tore up dirt and grass as it came pounding toward him—a massive ball of muscle and claw and fang. Jorah had no idea what gave him the idea to do it, but he found himself running towards the charging bear. A scream sprang from his lips as he charged right back, making the bear stop for a moment in confusion. Jorah kept charging, his sword held firmly in his hand. The bear roared again, then stood on his two feet, preparing to swipe at him. Jorah somersaulted in front of the bear, just as the beast swung, his claw moving sideways above Jorah. As he came out of the somersault, Jorah found himself nearly under the bear and drove his sword with all of his strength through the bear’s heart. 

His arm gave a painful twinge as he rammed the sharp blade through skin and muscle and organ and bone. The bear stopped roaring immediately and seemed to convulse for a moment before falling nearly on top of him. Jorah let go of his sword and scrambled back, only partly becoming trapped underneath the bear’s body. Grunting, he dragged himself out from under the heavy corpse and got back to his feet. Wiping his forehead, he looked down on the bear. He’d killed it . . . almost instantly. Adrenaline was still pumping through his veins, though he felt a vague exhaustion hovering in the background. 

Recalling what was required of him now, Jorah knelt beside the body and closed his eyes. “You fought well, brother,” he said, his hand moving to the top of the bear’s head. “I ask that you give me your strength, your power, your cunning and your protection. In this life and the next. As I respect your body, so you too shall respect my soul when we meet again.” Jorah opened his eyes and lightly stroked the soft—if not matty—fur. He felt a twinge of sadness for this death. Perhaps that was another lesson this test was supposed to teach—killing should never be easy, be it man or beast. 

With some difficulty, he rolled the bear over and pulled his sword from its body with a powerful tug. Then he set to skinning the bear and rolled the fur up and tied it his side. Of the two choices, Jorah chose to take a claw and set it in his pouch for now. Then came the difficult part of cutting the meat. Making a skid out of the branches, he tied the meat down, and then dragged it all the way back to Mormont Hall.

By the time he arrived, the sun was high in the sky. His body was near to giving up from exhaustion as he pulled the easily two-hundred-and-then-some pounds of meat up past the gate and into the courtyard. Somewhere, a bell was ringing to signal his return. His father, Aunt, and some of his cousins rushed to the yard to greet him. Others of the House, and some even from the closest villages, gathered as well. Once he reached his father, Jorah dropped the skid and wiped the sweat pouring from his face. He was breathing so heavily, he almost felt faint . . . but the sheer pride of what he had done kept him standing. 

Jeor looked down at the skid, and then at his face. “You’ve returned, Jorah of House Mormont, as a man.” His voice raised, and he addressed the crowd. “The right of passage has been completed! Jorah of House Mormont is hereby a true blooded Bear. A man in body and spirit. Treat him with the respect and honor a man deserves.” With the old words spoken, cheers sprang up and there was a quick bustling about to prepare a feast and festival to celebrate. The meat Jorah had procured would be shared by all who attended, and the village and his House would toast his name and cheer for his manhood. 

For now, Jorah simply wearily checked his father’s face. When Jeor smiled, his eyes bright and intense, Jorah felt himself smile in return, his sense of pride blazing in his chest. Many would remember this day as the day he became a man. Jorah would remember it as the day he made his father proud.


	3. Blood

Five Years Later . . . 

Cradled against his chest on a necklace, Jorah absently ran his thumb along the bear claw. His thoughts were far away with his wife—Elena of House Glover. Though married just under a year, he had managed to get her with child fairly quickly. However, as of late, she had been experiencing pains in her belly. It was cause for concern, as Elena was a rather frail girl to begin with. His lips pressed hard together in deep thought. Elena. She would not have been his first choice of wife. 

She was beautiful, yes, but she did not inspire any great deal of desire or affection in him. Jorah did not think himself a cruel husband—indeed, he knew many who were—but he was aware that he was . . . an absent one. Though dutiful towards her, Jorah found himself delighting in sneaking away with the wives of fishermen while they worked the nets and whiled away the afternoon in such manners. He was heir to Bear Island and a young, energetic man with a healthy libido. His wife was oft too ill for him to feel comfortable in approaching for such desires, and so he found readily eager substitutes. 

Perhaps it was because of his youth and being trapped in a loveless marriage, but Jorah could not rouse enough guilt inside of himself to stop. Perhaps once his child was born . . . perhaps then he’d find some warmth in his heart for Elena. Of that, his inability to feel tenderly for her, he did feel guilt. She was a kind woman. Gentle. Yet, she was too soft-spoken and subservient. She seemed almost afraid of him—afraid of everything, really. Jorah was unsure if this was actually the case. Elena was from Deepwood Motte, which was not situated very far from Bear Island.

Indeed, his father oft traveled there to take his prayers in the weirwood. It was by chance that his father had taken worship once with Sybelle Glover, Elena’s mother. The two had ended up discussing their families, and thereupon, Jorah had found himself unwittingly betrothed to Sybelle’s youngest daughter. Deepwood Motte and Bear Island had long since been friends. The two traded frequently, and it was oft that Bear Island relied on Deepwood Motte for additional soldiers whenever a Greyjoy—or those affiliated with the House—decided to raid and pillage the island. From what his father had told him, the Mormont’s payment for such beneficial military strength and resources was his hand in marriage. 

And so, before the Heart Tree near Deepwood Motte, Elena and himself had knelt and become man and wife. She was taken to Bear Island and within a few months, she showed signs of pregnancy. Jeor was quite excited about this. Jorah was unsure of how he felt about it. He felt . . . too young. He was green yet. He hadn’t shared in any battles or adventures. How was he to be a father now? His own had not become a father until he was later on in age. He’d had many adventures in that time. 

Jorah gave an irritated sigh and removed his hand from the bear claw. Resting atop a dock, he watched the water roll in and out. As dusk was beginning to fall, the fishermen had returned home for the night. Jorah was alone in his contemplations. Save until he heard the sound of galloping hooves behind him. Turning, he saw his father riding up along the shore. Pushing himself up, he met him at the end of the dock. At his questioning gaze, Jeor answered, “some of our soldiers have captured slavers. Mount your horse. Justice must be served.” 

Without a word of protest, Jorah hurried over to where his horse was tied up and mounted. Urging his horse after his father, Jorah wondered what the slavers were found doing this time. As slavery was illegal in Westeros, such men had to conduct their business in secret. Sometimes, the slavers they caught were merely discussing plans. Other times, they had been caught in the act of selling itself. Jorah wasn’t sure why they sometimes used Bear Island as a place to smuggle their goods. Though their entire coastline was not defended, Bear Island was on watch for such predators. Yet, they came all the same. 

His father led him to the training yard behind Mormont Hall. Three soldiers stood over two raggedy men knelt on the ground. Jeor was the first to dismount, drawing Longclaw as he did so. Jorah was quick to follow, his boots squishing in the mud of the heavily used yard. Casting an eye over the two men, they looked like fools. Both had rather vacant expressions on their faces, though one appeared to be sweating nervously. 

“Told you this wasn’t worth it,” the nervous one muttered to his partner. 

“Shut up,” the other hissed. “That girl was easily worth 10,000 Golden Dragons. More if you hadn’t fucked her on the way to this piss pot.” 

“SILENCE,” Jeor demanded, and the two men trembled, their eyes lowered to the ground. Jorah took his place beside his father, though a half-step behind. A woman then. They had attempted to sell a woman into slavery. For quite a price, too. Jorah wondered what had become of the woman . . . but if the bloodstains on the stoic slaver’s hands and sleeves were anything to judge by, she was gone from this world. This was not the first that Jorah had seen this happen. Slavers, in their desperate attempt to hide their trade, killed their product and came up with a ruse. 

It had never worked on his father, just as it had obviously not worked this time. “In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, I, Jeor of the House Mormont, Lord of Bear Island, sentence you to die for your crime of selling a human soul into slavery.” Jorah watched his father lift their family sword above his shoulder and into the man’s neck. The sword went cleanly through, the flesh parting with ease beneath the sharp blade. Blood gushed into the mud, the body falling. 

The other slaver cried out at the sight and tried to stand and back away, but the soldier nearest to him shoved him back down. “Please!” the slaver cried out. “I just needed money! My family was desperate for it! I won’t do it again! Please!” he begged, tears running down his face. 

Jeor was deaf to the man’s cries. He turned to Jorah and held out Longclaw, which was stained with red. Jorah gave him a look of surprise as he took up the hilt of the sword. “It was time you were blooded. My regrets that it is not on a worthier opponent . . . but this is a lesson all men who will become Lords must learn.” Jorah felt the weight of his destiny touch him in that moment. Lord of Bear Island. These executions would be his duty and his duty alone once he reigned. 

Looking down on the man, he saw that he was crying harder, fear making his eyes roll. He knew he was going to die. For a moment, Jorah felt pity in his heart. Whether this man’s tale was true or not, he understood the fear. Though he would never tell his father, Jorah questioned the legitimacy of the Old Gods. Even the New Gods. In fact, he questioned Gods as a whole. Which meant that he was unsure if there was any promised land of peace and rest after death. This man was terrified of that as well. An ending was final. Not knowing was terrifying. 

Feeling his father’s gaze on him, Jorah pushed this pity away. It was time to take a life. His first life. Gripping the hilt of Longclaw tightly, he repeated the words his father had spoken. "In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, I, Jorah of the House Mormont, heir to Bear Island, sentence you to die for your crime of selling a human soul into slavery.” The slaver wept bitterly, muttering insensibly. Jorah lifted Longclaw above his head, committing his heart and body to the task, and then swung it with all his might.

The impact was more jarring than he thought it would be. Though the sword sliced through the slaver’s neck with relative ease, Jorah had felt the push he needed to apply to jam it through bone and muscle. His arms shook, and he wasn’t sure if it was from the strain . . . or the trauma. The slaver slumped into the mud alongside his partner, and the soldiers stooped to clean up the mess, collecting the heads and bodies. Jeor nodded at him, taking Longclaw from his hand and wiping it down. “He who gives the sentence must carry the execution,” he told Jorah. “It is the old way, and the right way. Though we may despise the other person at the end of our blade, we must always respect him enough to look him in the eye when we kill him. If we cannot . . . then perhaps that is not a life worth ending.”

Jorah nodded, acknowledging the lesson his father wished to impart on him. Feeling something sticky on his palm, he looked down and saw a glob of blood there. It must have run down the blade. Jorah stared at the foreign color on his hand. Another man’s blood . . . sprouted by his own arm. There was an odd fire in his belly. Jorah quickly distanced himself and examined it. He recognized it as a rush, one that he might feel after an exhilarating horse race or after successfully sneaking out of a woman’s room after nearly being caught by her husband. There was a vague pull to repeat, so he could experience the rush and make it grow with intensity. He understood now the bloodlust that his father spoke of in battle. It enflamed a man and turned him into a beast upon the field. 

Jorah quenched the feeling. There was no battle to be won here . . . no fight for his survival. A cold, grim acknowledgement replaced the rush. An understanding that an unpleasant duty had to be done, and now was done, and so it was time for him to move onto the next task. Jorah walked over to one of the wells and filled a bucket with water. Washing his hands in it, he heard a shout from the Hall. “Jorah! Your wife! Quickly!” 

Feeling panicked, Jorah rushed after the servant and into the Hall. “What’s happened? What’s wrong?” he demanded, chasing down the servant through the corridors of the Hall. 

“She fell ill! Collapsed whilst she was sewing! There’s . . . blood, ser,” the servant added worriedly. 

Blood? That could only come from one place. Jorah burst into his chambers that he shared with his wife and found Elena weeping silently in bed. She was pale and shaking. Some of the midwives were cleaning the sheets, which were soaked in blood. “What’s happened?” he croaked, feeling utterly bewildered. 

Elena released a soft sob, then forced herself to look at him. “I . . . I lost him, h-husband. I’m so s-sorry,” she wept. 

Lost the baby. Jorah stood, motionless, staring at Elena’s outstretched hand which was as bloody as his own had been earlier. Was this her blood? Or their child’s? He was surprised with how much this knowledge hurt him. Only earlier he had bristled at the thought of being a father . . . but now . . . watching the product of what he and Elena had made together be scrubbed away into a bin . . . It was a loss. Slowly, he stepped to his wife and placed his hand in hers. 

She pressed her face against his arm, and Jorah sat upon the bed, his other hand lightly stroking her hair. He was a Mormont. Pillars of strength. Elena needed that strength now, even as he wobbled. “I was g-going to name him, J-Jorah,” she sobbed into his arm. “Jorah, Second of His name.” She lifted her eyes, obviously hoping that this news would please him. Jorah finally felt a true pang of guilt over his disloyalty to her. She obviously felt the strain in their marriage . . . and to appease him, she’d have named their son after him. She was a gentle thing . . . 

“Hush now, my lady wife,” he said quietly, stroking her hair as comfortingly as he could. “We have many years before us. We will have many children yet. Mourn for this one, but live for our future children,” he told her, leaning forward to press his lips to her forehead. His words, at least, made her stop crying. She gave a faint smile and released him, laying back in bed and letting the midwives tend to her once more. Jorah slowly rose and looked at the mess of sheets. Those would never lose the stain. 

“Stop,” he told them quietly and took the soiled sheets in his hands. “I will take care of these.”

Later that night, he buried his misery in the willing—and loud—body of the first fishwife who smiled at him.


	4. The Battle of the Bells

War. 

It had come swiftly, and yet according to his betters, it had been a long time in the making. The Targaryens had terrorized their subjects long enough. The Mad King had likely started the downfall of his family when he killed the head of the Stark family and its heir. As those men had been his Lords, Jorah had felt the impact of their deaths among his own family, and that of his own subjects. There was a distinction, he had found. Though his family and the soldiers they possessed vowed revenge and immediate support of the Starks should they call upon them—which they did—Jorah found that the fishermen and hunters and trappers and lumbermen grumbled to themselves about the indecency of it all . . . but then they just returned to work the next day. 

It was a curious thing to witness. His people concerned themselves only marginally, because their work remained the same. Here on this island, it was unlikely that the war would come to them. All the same, Jorah had watched them put a little more effort than normal in their collection of food and resources. Everyone wished to stockpile during times of war. Looters abounded. Forests were uprooted to build instruments of battle. Food was drained. Wartime was fascinating.

It was also his first. His father was seasoned and drew up their forces neatly and quickly as the North prepared to march down on the South. Lyanna Stark had been abducted. Robert Baratheon, a dear friend of their Lord’s, had called up his banners to come to her rescue . . . and topple a dynasty. Jorah, now twenty-seven, felt the unique perspective of one who knew he was witnessing history. More than that, he was a part of history. Though he was sure his name would never be sung because of this war, with the enthusiasm of a young man yet untouched by war, he relished the idea of a fight. 

The fight thus far had been occurring without him. The Starks had linked up with the Arryn forces whilst Robert Baratheon had shed the first blood at Summerhall. It had been a victory for them, and their forces were spurred on by the success of this win. In fact, Jorah was amused by how some of his men spoke of the fight as if they had been there fighting in it themselves. Yet here they were, riding hard for Stoney Sept to rescue Lord Baratheon after a defeat he’d recently suffered at Ashford. 

“I bet you a shiny Silver Stag he’s drawn and quartered by the time we find ‘im,” Jorah heard one of the soldiers say to his friend. “This rebellion dies with Robert Baratheon. Erryone knows it. They’ll be hard pressed to find ‘im.”

“Shot up, Earnie. You ‘aven’t got anything silver,” his friend grumbled back. “The Stag will bury ‘imself up in some whore’s cunt. That’ll ‘ide ‘im well and good.”

“I’d mind your tongue,” Jorah said, siding his horse up beside the marching men. “That’s your future king you’re betting against.”

“Apologies, m’lord,” the men said quickly, averting their gaze to the ground. 

Jorah felt a dulled sense of pride at this, but catching his father’s eye, the feeling quickly evaporated. His father gestured him up to the head of the column, and he urged his horse forward. “They’re not wrong,” his father gruffly said to him in an undertone. “If we lose Robert, we lose the Baratheon force. Stannis is besieged at Storm’s End. That leaves the army in the hands of Renly, the youngest. A boy as green as this grass.”

His brow furrowed. “But Lord Stark would not give up the fight. The Mad King murdered his father and brother. More than that, he slaughtered them.” 

Jeor nodded. “So he did. But Ned Stark is a wise young man. All the Starks are. He understands that sometimes surviving means we have to swallow our pride and bend the knee.”

Jorah shook his head. “We’re traitors now, father. We’ve taken up arms against our King. It’s either victory or death.” Some of the soldiers might be able to return home, but the Lords and a great number of their families would be executed or treason should they lose this war. 

“Remember that, son, when we go into battle. I’ve had you trained as much as I can . . . but nothing can truly prepare you for the heat and madness of battle.” Jeor seemed to steel himself, as if his willpower alone would armor him. “Remember that a man who comes up against you is as desperate as you are to live. Many have families. Children. Wives. Lovers. They intend on returning to them. Remember that when your arm starts to go numb, and your lungs are sore from breathing so heavily.” Suddenly, a call went up. Jeor lifted his head and looked ahead of them. “Remember that, because we’re about to fight. Rally the men.”

Jorah felt a surge of exhilaration as the war horns all blared. Ahead of them rest Stoney Sept, smoke billowing above it. It would seem the Targaryen force had already arrived. Gripping his horse’s reins, he turned and urged his horse back to their line. The Mormont banners flew high around him as he rode up and down the column. “Form up!” he called, his voice cracking slightly as he gave his first battle command. Glancing back at his father, he saw Eddard Stark speaking with his father from his horse. Jeor nodded, and Eddard galloped back to his line of men. 

His father turned to them and addressed the soldiers as loudly as his voice could carry. “Our orders are to engage the Targaryen force ahead. Lord Arryn will flank them once we are engaged. We’re to keep them distracted, so Lord Stark can rush his forces into the city and find our future King.” Jorah stared back over at the city. The glinting of armor could be seen just in front of the gates. Distantly, he could just barely make out the flag of the Hand of the King. Jon Connington was here then. Jorah sat in wonder for a moment. So many tales he had heard of all the men they were facing. Brave heroes and warriors. If he could prove his mettle against them, then he wouldn’t have to question his strength again. His stomach fluttered lightly in apprehension and a trickle of fear settled in. The reality of what could be his imminent death struck him. However, the only one who could determine that fate was himself. If he died, it was because he gave up. 

Mormonts never quit. They stood their ground unto the very end. Hearing a sudden clanging, he watched his father unsheathe Longclaw and hold it above his head. “House Mormont! Serve your Lord! Serve your bannermen! Serve your King!” A shiver ran down Jorah’s spine. There was a violent barbarity to his father’s voice that he had never heard before. This was no longer his stoic and quiet father before him. This was a warrior. A commander. “Remember the horrors the Mad King has done to this country. Now is our time to rise up and return our country to its former glory! Where do you stand!?” he bellowed. 

“HERE WE STAND!” they bellowed back, driving their spears or feet into the ground with each word, some even rapping on their armored chests. Hundreds of men and women, line after line, all shouting back in reply to his father. Jorah truly felt the power of being Lord of Bear Island then. 

“For House Mormont and House Stark! For Westeros!” his father shouted.

“HERE WE STAND!” they echoed, and Jorah could feel the tension building. It captured the entire column, a buzzing sort of energy and desperation to be loosed, so they could butcher and slaughter. 

“For the innocent murdered in cold barbarity!” 

“HERE WE STAND!” 

Jeor swung his horse to face the army ahead. “For honor and glory!” 

“HERE WE STAND!”

A war horn sounded twice, and Jeor shouted, “CHARGE!” Jorah’s horse nearly reared at the screaming as the men rushed forward towards the city. So swept up by what he had witnessed, he had forgotten to ride to the front alongside his father. So, with a quick jolt to his horse’s flanks, Jorah charged with the rest of them. He grabbed his sword and drew it out of its sheathe. Men on horseback galloped past him, screaming bloody murder as they raced by. It seemed a race to try and shed first blood. 

As the Mormont unit only had a few horsemen, they veered off the main part of the army and worked at flanking and surrounding them instead. Jorah watched one of the first Mormont horsemen jump into the line of Targaryen soldiers. Their spears tore him right up, his horse screaming after him once it was dragged down. The wind was whistling in his ears, and he could barely breathe from the shock of it all. It was so loud. He barely even knew where to look first. 

Once he reached the army, he turned his horse to the side and blindly stabbed downwards, swiping his sword. It met with hard clangs, and he thought his arm was going to be pulled right from its socket. Urging his horse on, he disengaged and rolled his arm, wincing slightly. Glancing at his sword, he saw with surprise that there was blood on it. He’d hurt someone. A brief sense of remorse filled him, but he quickly smothered it and killed it. He had to kill if he wanted to live. His father’s lesson rang in his head. They’d kill him just as quickly. 

As he rerouted his horse, the main bulk of their unit met the army then. Swords and bodies clashed. The screaming died down to grunting and cries of pain. The piercing clang and ring of metal against metal beat inside of his head. Jorah rode forward once more, urging his horse into the fray. He slashed his sword again, this time keeping his eyes on it. He was able to watch his sword slice right through a Targaryen soldier’s neck. His head rolled up to the sky before it fell beside the body on the ground. Blood splashed onto his armor and face. He wiped it away and continued to slash and stab at the massive amount of moving bodies around him. 

At some point, and he wasn’t entirely when or how, because he could barely think let alone strategize, his horse disappeared from under him. Jorah fell hard to the ground and rolled just as a sword came swinging down to the spot he had been in. Pushing himself up, he faced his opponent. Clad in the armor of the Three-Headed dragon, the soldier came at him again. Jorah found that fighting had less to do with recalling one’s training, than acting on one’s instinct. So, he simply focused on what his gut was telling him to do. He dodged another swipe—this one horizontal, aimed at his belly—and then countered with a jab to the shoulder. His sword bounced off the man’s armor, and Jorah winced as his hand rang from the collateral damage. The soldier stabbed, and Jorah quickly deflected the blow with his blade, but he nearly tripped, and the soldier grasped the opportunity. He felt a slice along the back of his shoulder where the armor stopped, and he hissed at the white hot pain. 

Despite the stinging and dull throbbing, he righted himself and focused. Footwork was just as important as sword handling, he reminded himself. The soldier, annoyed that his blow hadn’t gone as deeper as he had hoped, charged at him, intending to impale him through the belly. Jorah quickly side-stepped and lowered to one knee, holding his sword out. It caught the man’s ankles, and they sliced clean off. The man howled in agony, blood gushing from the stumps. Jorah looked down at him in surprise and a vague sense of guilty. The man needed mercy. Jorah drove his sword through the man’s skull, killing him immediately. 

There were distant screams, and Jorah felt the mass of people around him move in direction. Stretching his head, he could just barely see the Arryn banners as they came rushing into the back of the army, flanking and cutting them off. Trapped between two main forces, the Targaryen army started to give way. Jorah was allowed a brief respite to watch the madness around him. Men were clawing at each other, some of them had their swords forgotten at their feet. They were in a desperate struggle of survival. Jorah was alarmed by the sheer beast and animal that he saw these men become. There was no honor or glory in war, he was beginning to realize. Only horror and death and the worst of our selves. 

He was a part of history, and now he understood how ugly history looked firsthand. It was with this new sense of grimness and cynicism that he turned his blade on his next opponent. In the end, Jorah was uncertain how long they had fought. It felt like a day had passed, but when the Targaryen soldiers broke and fled the field, and the Starks emerged from the city with Baratheon banners flying high, he saw that the sun had only moved a quarter across the sky. Men cheered around him at their victory, though Jorah understood that their tears of joy had more to do with their own survival, than with the condition of their King. 

Bruised, sliced and battered, Jorah picked his way through the bodies and entered the city, searching for his father. To his surprise, he saw that the fight had occurred here as well. Bodies were lined up along the streets. To his astonishment, some were even on rooftops, the victors of those duels climbing down ladders to boast of their victory. Jorah heard men groaning on the ground. They would not survive their wounds. These were the sounds of the dead. He hardened himself against them. Bells were ringing throughout the city, and only once the Targaryen army had completely disappeared, did they stop. Citizens poked their heads out of their homes and cast a frightened gaze on the force that had taken their city. 

Still, Jorah searched for his father, trying to find where the headquarters was kept. If he was alive, he’d be there reporting to Lord Stark. One of the Baratheon soldiers was raping a young woman on top of a destroyed market stall. She squealed and pushed at him, crying out for help. Jorah’s lips pushed together, but he walked on. There would likely be much of that tonight. Even he felt the beast inside of him, now covered in blood, call for a final release. It took considerable effort to reign it in. There were plenty of camp followers. If he felt the need later, he’d just pay for one of their services. 

At long last, outside of a brothel no less, he found his father with the other Lords. He was relieved to see his father was unharmed. Indeed, other than a bit of blood on his face, he seemed entirely unharmed. “Father,” he greeted quietly as he approached the conversing men. 

Jeor turned and looked at him. “Jorah.” To his pleasure, there was a bright gleam of pride in his father’s eye. “You’ve shed your first blood. You’re a soldier now. How do you feel?”

It was quite the question. Jorah looked about them. “Empty,” he answered finally. 

Jeor grew solemn and nodded. “Then you’re going to be a fine warrior.” He turned to their Lord, Eddard, then and gestured to him. “My son, Jorah. You remember him.”

He’d met Lord Stark a handful of times. The last had been Eddard’s wedding to his new lady wife, Catelyn Tully. “My lord,” Jorah bowed. 

Ned Stark gripped his shoulder. The two were close to an age, and Jorah wondered then at this man’s wisdom and strength. He was Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North . . . and was among the leaders of the Rebel army. Jorah felt bereft, as if he had been slighted with destiny. All he had managed to do during the past twenty-seven years was fuck fishwives, fish, train and lose two children to miscarriages. “A son worthy of our Old Bear,” he tossed a rare smile to Jeor. “Do you have a taste for it now? War?” Eddard asked him.

“I have an understanding of it,” Jorah replied, “. . . and I think that’s better than having a taste for it.” 

“Ned,” came a loud and abrupt voice behind the two men. “I’ve just received word.” A tall man with huge shoulders and arms—a giant Warhammer strapped to his back—approached them. ‘The King,’ Jorah realized with an odd touch of awe. This man with his thick black hair and bright eyes . . . This was a man born to be King. He had the bearing of one, and he knew it. Robert Baratheon. “Rhaegar rides for the Trident. If we march now, we can meet him there and end this thing once and for all.” 

Eddard considered this. “What of your brother? At Storm’s End? They were unprepared for a siege . . .”

“I told Stannis to hold it. He will do so to his dying breath. I know the man,” Robert cut him off. “Stubborn as nails. Or a penniless whore,” he added with a loud laugh. But he became earnest once more. “We ride for the Trident. Now.”

Robert walked off, leaving Eddard standing awkwardly beside Jeor and himself. “How are the men?” Eddard asked Jeor. “Did we lose many?”

His father shook his head. “We remain strong, my lord. As always, House Mormont is ready to serve.” 

Eddard nodded. “We’ll rest here tonight. Have them given extra rations and water. In the morning, we march. I’ll see to the rest of my bannermen.” Jeor bowed his head, and then turned to Jorah once more. The two walked off, and Jorah rotated his shoulder, feeling the wound there start to sting more profoundly now that he had nothing else to focus on. 

Jeor eyed him. “You’re wounded. See to a healer. Make sure you keep that wound clean. A clean wound means you’ll likely survive. A tainted wound means death. Pass Lord Eddard’s command along the men.” 

Jorah nodded and began to remove the armor at his shoulder, so he could get at it. Whenever he passed by one of his men, he forwarded the news. Crows had arrived on the battlefield. They picked at the men they still had to bury, feasting upon them. Hurried graves were dug, the bodies tossed inside. Swords and armor were collected and stored on carts. Entering their camp, Jorah saw that those who had not been selected for field duty were celebrating their victory already. For many, this meant drinking and whoring. He could hear the drunken slurs and laughter throughout the camp. A few times they were punctured by cries of pleasure. 

A healer saw to him immediately. His wound was cleaned and dressed, and he was sent off to his tent. As he had suspected, a camp follower who obviously knew his face, was there waiting for him. She disrobed immediately and sprawled herself on his cot suggestively. She had fine red hair like fire, and she was obviously one of the cleaner, higher-paid whores. One reserved for officers and nobility. Jorah thought to join her. How pleasant it would be to alleviate the stress of battle in his mind—the chaos that waged there—and then rest upon the soft flesh of a woman’s bosom. But his thoughts traveled to his father. He had not taken to such distractions. 

Jorah, wanting to be of sound mind and body, quietly dismissed her. She went quickly, seeking her coin elsewhere. Laying on his cot, he stared up at the canopy of his tent. Though the sounds of camp were loud, he could hear the distant cawing over the battlefield. Reaching under his cot, he pulled out the old books his mother had obtained during her life. No one really read them anymore, and so he took to reading them himself. There was a peace one could find in the pages of a book. These volumes contained songs and histories of Westeros. 

Lightly, he drew his finger along the penned name of his mother on the first page. She had signed all of the books she had owned. Never having known her, this was the closest contact he could have with her. “I learned about man today, mother,” he murmured quietly. “I learned about war. And I learned about myself.” 

He was innocent no longer.


	5. The Battle of the Trident

So many people packed in together. Having lived on an island, Jorah felt the dense number of people almost like a suffocating force. He sat atop his horse outside of the long and thick columns of men as they marched past. Banners flew everywhere. Stag, bear, wolf, fish, white falcon and crescent moon . . . so many others with their House colors. The men were dirty, their armor scratched and bent. Some had no armor at all. Others had stolen pieces of Targaryen armor. A rebel force, indeed. The mood was grim. Though they had successfully saved their King from almost certain death, they knew another fight was in the making. Perhaps just over the next hill. 

Jorah looked up at the sky. Even that was overcast and gloomy. Their march was unhurried. They were headed for King’s Landing. Now that the Baratheon force had been saved—and not counting the part of it tangled up at Storm’s End—they had their full numbers. Jorah watched them all now . . . nearly thirty-five thousand men. All of them blooded. Himself, included. He felt different than when this war had begun. Harder. Little surprised him anymore. Certainly not the barbarity of men. 

Turning his horse, he returned to riding along the side of the marching infantry. His father was at the head of the Mormont unit. Riding up to him, he settled beside him. “How are they?” his father asked him, his gaze intent on the horizon. 

“Weary, but holding fast,” Jorah replied. “Do you think we will camp or cross the ford first?” 

Jeor paused to look up at the sky. “We’re losing the sun. If Robert is smart, he’ll wait until the morning. We don’t want half our army caught on the other side of the crossing in the dark and suddenly under attack. Perfect place for a slaughter.” Jorah looked ahead of them. The Arryn forces led the column. Ahead of them, Jorah could make out the Trident. The water ran slower here. The Arryns didn’t seem to be slowing, nor did Jorah see any messengers riding back and forth. They might just cross yet. 

Then the horns began. Jorah tensed at the sound. It had become instinctive through the war—the immediate response to a horn. There was shouting ahead of him, and he squinted his eyes, trying to peer ahead. “What is it?” Jeor asked. “Do you see anything?” Jorah couldn’t see what had the Arryns suddenly blowing their horns and flanking out . . . until he looked beyond the ford to see a long line of glittering. 

“Armor!” Jorah exclaimed, gripping the reins of his horse tightly as adrenaline started to pump through his blood. “The royal army is ahead of us.” More horns were blared, and he watched Robert Baratheon ride passed them with Eddard Stark. 

“Looks like we’re neither crossing nor camping.” Jeor moved to the side of the column. “We’ve a fight on our hands!” he shouted towards his men, who sent up a cheer. Jeor galloped after their Lord to receive their orders. Remaining behind, Jorah watched the royal army form up. There were . . . thousands of them. They marched down a hill that had hidden them from view. What had happened to their scouts? Surely someone would have seen and reported the royal army dead ahead of them. Behind him, he heard the soldiers talking amongst themselves. It was a nervous murmuring. 

“Hold fast, men,” Jorah said to them, turning his horse around, so he could face them. “If you need to piss, I suggest doing so now, so no one mistakes you shitting your armor during the fight. Don’t need your name in a song like that, hm?” That caused a rumble of chuckles, and the tension eased just a little. Jorah looked back at the front of the column. His father was riding back. Jorah met him half-way, eager to know what was going on. 

“We fight,” was all Jeor said to him. The rest of his words were put to their men. “We’re to form the right flank! We’ll likely be drawn into the water, so keep your feet. Shed armor if you think it will help.” His father paused. “Rhaegar Targaryen heads the army. I don’t think I need to express how important it is we win here today.” Jorah quickly looked back at the royalist army. The dragon prince himself. The figures were too tiny for him to make out any individuals. “Stand your ground, House Mormont. Remember our Words. Remember your honor. Remember that the man standing on the other side of that river kidnapped your Lord’s sister. To arms! To battle! To justice!” Jeor roared, and the soldiers echoed his bellow, beating their chests.

All along the column, Jorah heard it. The bellowing of men. Distantly, he could hear the echo of the royalist army shouting back at them. Jeor started to lead their men to their place along the river. Jorah turned to follow, but his father grabbed his reins. “Stay near the back, Jorah,” he told him sternly. Jorah frowned deeply at this, confusion in his eyes. “Don’t let anyone leave or anyone through.” This was a squire’s job, but before he could protest, Jeor tightened his grip. “You are my heir. My only heir. Just this battle . . . stay in the back. That’s an order.” 

With that, his father released him and led the men forward. Jorah felt . . . dismayed. No honor could be had fighting in the back. It was a coward’s place. He could disobey once the battle began . . . his father would never notice. ‘And if he finds you dead at the head of the army? He’s trying to keep you alive.’ Just this once. Frustration weighed heavily in his heart, but he lingered until his unit had passed, then followed behind them, urging stragglers on. The rest of the army was moving as well. Speed was necessary. The Targaryen army was already near the water. 

It was so loud. Armor, swords, shouting, horses, the rushing water, and all of the horns. With their men lined up, Jorah was able to finally see the royalist army. They looked more or less the same as those they had fought at Stony Sept. Except these had clean armor. They had yet to face battle. Well . . . they’d be receiving the shock of their lives then. There was suddenly a cheer as Robert Baratheon rode along the front line of his army. Men threw up their arms and swords and banners as he rode by, roaring and holding his massive Warhammer in the air. Jorah felt goosebumps rise at the sight. Robert wore his famed helm—the antlers tall and pointed atop his head. His beard was bushy and fierce. He looked every part the warrior. 

Once Robert had rode the line, he returned to the middle where he faced . . . Jorah squinted his eyes and made him out . . . Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. His armor was the most decorative Jorah had ever seen. He couldn’t see his face, as it was hidden by his helm, but his long silver hair was unmistakable. As was the helm itself, which sported wide dragon wings on either side. As for the rest of his armor . . . it was inlaid with gems and jewels of all variety. He looked like the Prince all the Songs ever sang about. The Prince suddenly lifted his sword, and an eerie hush came across the two armies. Even the rebel army quieted. Jorah felt the silence deep in his chest. 

A moment passed. The river surged. The horses exhaled sharply. Then the Prince lowered his sword in an arc, pointing it directly at Robert. Then screaming began anew. Jorah’s horse nearly reared at the explosion of sound. The two armies charged into the water, at each other. The clang of swords and screams and grunts began once more. Jorah heard the whistling of arrows and thuds as they came to a rest around him. He urged his horse forward into the water as well, joining up with his men in the back and keeping the royal soldiers from reaching their side. 

Men all around him fell—either by slipping or by a foe’s blow—and disappeared underneath the water, weighed down by their armor. Those who had decided to shed their armor, resurfaced, sputtering and launched back into battle. Atop his horse, Jorah stabbed downwards into the enemy soldiers, chopping off heads where he could, or severely injuring their necks. One pikemen who had managed to survive the charge jabbed his pike into Jorah’s leg. Crying out in sharp pain, Jorah turned his horse away and managed to get his horse to kick the soldier. 

“Fuck!” Jorah swore and yanked the pike out of his calf. It hadn’t embedded deep, but it had hurt a great deal. Keeping his injured leg firmly in his stirrup, he grit his teeth against the pain and continued to fight. The battle was exhaustive. Whether it was because they were not just fighting one another, but the water as well, Jorah soon became fatigued as well, and he had been mounted. At least . . . until now. Another man with a spear ran forward and jabbed it into his horse’s neck. It drove through and nearly hit Jorah as well, but he got out of his saddle and dropped down into the water. His horse fell atop the spearman, drowning him. 

Grunting, he pushed himself and put his weight on his good leg. Quickly, he looked about him. Men surrounded him. He was still near the back, but the ebb and flow of the battle had moved him towards the middle. Shouting came from all sides. The water kept pushing at his legs, wanting to trip him up. If it wasn’t the water, it was the litter of bodies that were beginning to pile up. 

A Targaryen soldier pushed himself in front of Jorah, and he quickly dodged a blow. Bringing his sword up, he parried another attack. Grunting, he met strength with strength, each man pushing back only briefly enough to catch their breath before coming at one another again. Jorah was concentrating on the man’s sword, but he glanced quickly at his face. Bearded, the man’s eyes were wild. He looked more beast than man. Jorah felt a brief spark of fear before quickly killing it. Fear led to mistakes. Summoning up his calm, he held it in place like a shield and started to go on the offensive instead. 

The man, in his battle frenzy, moved faster and harder. The impact of his sword had Jorah’s arms throbbing. With a sudden flick of his wrists, the soldier countered his attack and was about to attack himself . . . when his sword suddenly slipped out of his hands. The soldier stared at his hands in shock, and Jorah seized the moment to drive his sword through the soldier’s neck. He made it a quick death and decapitated a second later. 

Panting heavily, Jorah shook out his arms and rolled his neck to ease it from the strain and tension. He looked down at his own hands and silently thanked the Gods for his choice to wrap his palms with fabric before every fight. His sword would not slip. If it had . . . it could have been him headless in the water. Wiping his forehead, Jorah looked for his next opponent. Again and again, he attacked and sent them to meet their Gods. He was tiring though. His sword was getting heavier. His chest was hurting from his panting. His leg was close to giving out. 

The Gods were good to him again. There was a sudden repeated screaming that drifted across the river. “THE PRINCE IS DEAD!! FALL BACK! FALL BACK TO KING’S LANDING!” The sudden pressure in front and around them dissipated as men disengaged and ran off. Jorah stood with the other survivors, looking around in confusion. There was a massive amount of movement at the center of the river. The sound of fighting continued, though not with blade . . . but with fists. 

Limping out of the water, Jorah made it to the other side of the bank that the royalist army was running back from whence they came. Through the chaos, he saw men of both sides punching one another and fighting as they dove under the water and came back up with fistfuls of shining jewels and gems. Horns were blaring once more, but these did not cause him to become alert. They were the horns of victory. Worn, he collapsed on the bank and watched the men fight over the valuables. He wondered where the Prince’s body had gone and what they would do to it. 

He also wondered if their own King was still alive. Jorah undid his kilt and trousers and inspected his wound. There was a nasty puncture wound, but it didn’t look as though it had moved much past tissue and some muscle. Grunting, he got back to his feet and to where the men were starting to make camp. The healing tents were packed full, so he simply took what he needed and retreated to a campfire. He sanitized the needle, and then started to sew his wound back up after cleaning it. 

Hissing, he removed his gauntlet and placed it in his mouth, biting down on it. He tried again and jumped from the pain. Giving a frustrated growl, he shoved the needle into his skin and screamed past the gauntlet, white spots popping before his eyes. He felt faint, but he held on. “If you want to sew your own damned wounds, you have to watch what you’re damned doing,” he heard his father’s voice. Jorah looked at him through watery eyes from the pain. Spitting the gauntlet out, he looked his father over. There was a gash at his neck, but his face was covered in blood, but he was standing. He was alive. 

They had survived. “Let me see that,” Jeor knelt in front of his son. “Now watch.” And he showed Jorah how to properly sew up a wound. “Change the dressings regularly,” he finished, wrapping the bandage around his son’s leg. “More death stems from infection than loss of blood.” 

Jorah nodded and stretched his leg out. It stung like something else, but at least he didn’t have a gaping wound anymore. “What happened?” he asked his father. “I heard the Prince was dead and saw the men in the ford.”

“Savages,” spat Jeor, shaking his head. “Robert killed him. Blew his jewels right off of his armor. Men whored themselves to get them,” he grunted. “The royalist army is fleeing back to King’s Landing now. Likely to lick their wounds. But we killed their Prince. The tide is in our favor.” Indeed, Jorah could feel it. There was a merriness among the camp. Though the river was clogged with bodies, it seemed every man knew that they were winning. Now, officially, they were winning the war. “Robert was hurt in the fight. He’s ordered our Lord to ride for King’s Landing and take it.” 

Jorah groaned. More marching and riding. “The men can’t. They need to rest. A day, at least.”

“A day could be what our enemy uses to lick his wounds and come back at us at full strength,” Jeor retorted. “This war ends in King’s Landing,” he told him. Jorah considered that. It had been waging for a year now. A year all he had known was muck and blood. An end to all of that. He was tired of it already. He could only imagine how the foot soldiers felt. Ending the war? He’d go back to his wife and continue to attempt to have children with her. It seemed a distant dream now. As if all of that had happened to another person. His father interrupted his thoughts by saying, “they’re calling it the Ruby Ford now,” Jeor scoffed. 

“Never mind that a dynasty died in these waters.”


	6. The Sacking of King's Landing

Upon the battlefield, it was not uncommon to smell the rancid odor of burning flesh. Oft times there lacked the time to bury the hundreds of dead that clogged the fields and road. Such bodies were then piled and stacked and burnt to ash and bone. The wind had always seemed to favor Jorah and blow the other way, so his stomach was spared from roiling at the stench. 

No breeze could alleviate this reek. The city of King’s Landing was burning. It was not the fire of the Targaryens either. Flags sewn with golden lions flew up and down the clogged streets. Houses were burning everywhere as the Lannisters sacked the city. What remained of the City Guard and last vestiges of the royal army were being slaughtered in the streets. The Northern host stood aghast at the gates. Jorah was among them. He’d seen his share of battle, but this was an entirely different animal. 

Innocent people ran for the gates, trying to get past the Northern army and out of the city to some dream of safety. Jorah’s horse stirred uncomfortably as a woman whose head had clearly been bashed in during the chaos stumbled by, wailing and not realizing that she was minutes from death. He felt a cold sweat trickle down his skin under his armor. This wasn’t right. War was not supposed to be like this. They fought in the fields far from places like this, so this exact butchery could be avoided. 

“Mind your horses,” Lord Stark said at the front of the host. “Help the people if you can. We do not yet know the intentions of these Lannisters. House Mormont, Cassel, and Karstark remain in the City. Bring peace to it.” Eddard led the bulk of the force forward, heading for the Red Keep. Jorah motioned his bannerman to him. They’d take the eastern portion of the city. The fires burned heavily there. Perhaps they could keep it from spreading to the marketplace. Leading his battalion forward, Jorah silently observed the chaos. 

Each scream and injustice made his jaw tighten harder and harder. Once they reached a wide enough area, he turned his horse and faced his weary men. “Restore order,” he commanded them. “Remember your honor. This war is finished. Ensure your blood is not shed in folly.” His grim men marched forward, pulling Lannister soldiers away from the looting and throwing water onto the scorched buildings. Jorah rode further down the Eastern road, his horse jumping over a few fallen beams of burnt wood now and then. People were running all about, every single one panicked. A frantic screaming caught his attention, and he searched the crowd for the source. 

It was not difficult to find it. Brazenly, in the middle of the street, a Lannister soldier was raping a woman against a crumbling building. She fought at him, scratching and kicking, but the soldier held her fast. The scene bothered him so much, that Jorah dismounted and pushed his way through the crowd to the woman. “Get off of her!” he growled, grabbing the soldier and hauling him off of the sobbing woman. “Lord Stark has taken command of this City,” he informed the soldier. “Find your hole elsewhere.”

The soldier gave a drunken laugh. It seemed they had raided the alehouses and taverns as well. More to be cleaned up. Lovely. “You cunt,” the soldier slurred. “Who do you-hic-think I serve? Not sssome mangy dog. The mad dog. The Mountain. He owns thissss city-hic-now!” he laughed. 

Jorah frowned. The Mountain. He was unfamiliar with the name. “That name means nothing to me,” he informed the soldier. “Go back to your bunk before you piss yourself.” 

“Soddin’ cunt!” the soldier spat, seeming to remember that he had a sword at his side and was foolishly drunk enough to think he was an expert swordsmen. “Gregor Clegane! Soon to be Ser, if I hear-hic-the truth of it. He just ended the Targaryen line. Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys? Nothin’ but a ssssmear on the wall now. And that whore Princess Elia?” The soldier laughed wickedly and nodded to the crying woman. “She should be so lucky. My touch is a lot gentler than the Mountain’s. Rumor is he split her in two with his cock alone.” The soldier laughed hard at that before being struck in the back of the head. The man fell in front of Jorah, knocked out. 

“Couldn’t stand hearing anymore of that filth,” Rodrik Cassel grunted, standing before Jorah. “How are your men?”

“Tired,” Jorah replied, giving the older man a bemused look. “Ready to go home.” The soldier’s words lingered in his mind, and he gave Rodrik a troubled look. “Do you think there’s truth in what he said? That the Prince and Princesses are dead?”

Rodrik worried at his whiskers. “I know the name Clegane. They serve Tywin Lannister. If they are true . . . we know who gave the order.” He grunted then and shrugged. “But then again, perhaps not. I’ve heard tale of Gregor before this war. He was a mad dog before he started sitting at Twyin’s feet.” Rodrik sniffed and looked up at the night sky. Normally, the sky would be glittering down upon them, but the smoke choked the entire horizon black. “This was a nasty war,” he said finally. “My men have cleaned up the Western side of the City. Karstarks have taken the middle. Sweep through and meet us at the Keep. If these rumors are true, I don’t think our Lord will want to sleep in this place.” 

The older man left then, and Jorah looked down at the woman who was still sniffling and holding her slit dress to her body. His heart was touched at the sight. Removing his cloak, he knelt and wrapped it around her. “Find somewhere safe,” he told her quietly. “The Western side of the City has been cleared of soldiers. You should be alright there.” Pulling her carefully to her feet, he reached down for the soldier and grabbed his coin purse. “Here.” He placed it in her hands. “It’s the least of what he owes you.” 

The woman’s eyes misted over anew, and she held his cloak tighter around her body. “Th-Thank-you, Ser.”

Jorah’s lips pulled into a small smile. “Just a son, my lady,” he said graciously, warmed by the feeling of aiding one in need. She said a small blessing for him, then slipped into the bustling crowd, disappearing from view. Jorah turned his attention elsewhere in the street. His men pulled brawls apart, extinguished fires and managed to send the Lannister soldiers packing for the Keep. He saw relief and reverence in some of the innocent public’s faces, and he understood that even in the chaos of war, there were moments of remarkable chivalry and unity. 

With the buildings saved that could be saved, and the plundering put to a stop, Jorah ordered his men to form up and march for the Keep. Mounting his horse once more, the flags of House Mormont joined with those of Cassel and Karstark at the gatehouse. The portcullis was up, and men were walking to and fro the Keep. Jorah rode over to Rodrik, who was looking quite grim. “Any word?” he asked, sidling his horse up next to his. 

Rodrik frowned heavily. “The King is dead. Lord Stark found Jaime Lannister standing over his body . . . his sword driven through his back.”

Jorah understood the man’s concern. It was a tense moment. The King was dead, and the throne was empty. Their King had yet not arrived, though Robert was on the way. If the Lannisters wished to claim the throne, they’d have another fight on their hands. “What of the Queen?” he asked. 

“She’s fled. Her and her son, Prince Viserys. Last sighting was at Dragonstone.” Rodrik tugged at his whiskers once more, his horse giving an impatient snort. “She’s with child, don’t know if you knew. Makes three Targaryens still alive out there, at least.”

“A mother and her children,” Jorah agreed. Surely, they did not pose a threat . . . though he supposed a new King needed to assure himself that no one ever threatened his newly claimed throne. Especially when that threat came from a centuries-long dynasty. Jorah had always known life under the rule of a Targaryen. As had his father, and his father’s father, and many of the fathers before him. This was new. They faced a realm run by a new man with a new name. Jorah realized then how odd it would be to live in a land no longer owned by the Three-Headed Dragon. 

There were a few shouts of, “get out of the way! Make way for Lord Stark!” ahead, and he turned his attention to the gate. Eddard walked forward, looking pale and tired. Jorah wondered if he had hoped to find his sister here. Had she left with the Queen and Prince? Lady Lyanna was a strong woman. A warrior. She was more Mormont than Stark, he sometimes believed, glancing back at the women who made up his ranks beside his men. If she did not want to be held, she would have fought and escaped. A pregnant Queen could not hope to hold someone as wild as Lyanna. 

“The Keep is ours,” Eddard said once he reached the front of the host. “Rest. We wait for the King.” They were given their sleeping arrangements, and Jorah saw that his men camped and were fed and watered. He left for his own tent once his duties were complete and wearily sat down on his cot. Lighting a candle, he pulled a piece of parchment towards him with a quill. Dipping it into ink, he smoothed the parchment over a book and began to write. 

Father,  
By the time this raven reaches you, the news will likely have spread. We have taken King’s Landing. Robert Baratheon is our King in all but name now. The sacking of the city was barbaric. I thought men in the field were beasts, but true savagery reared its ugly head to me here. The innocent were preyed upon and butchered. We helped those we could. House Lannister has chosen to join with us, albeit at the last moment.   
I await further orders from Lord Stark, and shall write to you once I have them.   
-Jorah

Checking his message over, he blew on the ink to dry it, and then folded the parchment into a scroll. He sealed it with the sigil of House Mormont, and then carried it outside to the mobile rookery. Tying his message to a raven, he sent it off to his father, who was traveling with Robert’s host. Returning to his tent, he laid back on his cot, mindful of his injuries. Jorah stared up at the canopy of his tent, listening to the bustle of the camp outside. It was louder than normal . . . cheerful. The end of the war was at hand. The men were beginning to realize they had survived and would be able to share these stories—no doubt exaggerated ones—to their children and wives. His thoughts turned to his own wife for the first time in a long time. 

Elena. How was she fairing now? He had not written her in some time, and he felt a stirring of guilt over that. Though he wasn’t sure if he felt guilty because he had not written, or because he had barely given her a thought during the campaign. Other men talked frequently about their longing to return to their wives. Though he knew he’d be happy to see her smile and warm eyes, he did not feel that passionate yearning to return to her arms. But, he knew his duty. He’d have to share her bed and get with her child once more. He needed an heir. A taste of this adventure had left him wanting more, and he could not readily do so without an heir to take his place should something happen. 

Perhaps his surviving the war was a sign. He should try to love her. For her sake, if no one else’s. With that thought in mind, he turned on his side and fell into sleep . . . 

 

“THEY WERE HEIRS, NED. THREATS TO MY REIGN. IT HAD TO BE DONE,” Robert Baratheon’s voice rang out over the Keep. 

Jorah stood with the other leaders of the North, grouped quietly together to await their Lord’s orders . . . and by accident, witnessing one of the most heated verbal fights Jorah had ever seen. Reports of little bundles being displayed to their new King had abounded over the City during the night and morning. The remains of the Prince and Princess were cloaked within. Elia Martell had also been discovered, dead and raped. Jorah had not seen the bodies themselves, but it seemed that his Lord and the King had. Eddard Stark was standing stiffly just in front of them, facing Robert, who was standing just in front of the Iron Throne. 

It looked like a beast of a chair. Thousands of swords melted together into a giant bulk that resembled a place where one was supposed to put one’s arse. Though why a King should feel the need to sit upon a seat covered in phallic symbols, Jorah was uncertain. That drew a wry smile from his lips in spite of the situation. The Great Hall was impressive, however. The ceiling stretched high above with smooth columns. The Targaryen banners had been removed. As had the legendary dragon skulls that were said to have lined the Hall. Jorah regretted that he had not seen them, nor likely would be able to see them. He’d read about dragons in the books his mother had left him. They ran through the histories and songs of Westeros as commonly as blood. 

“They were children, Robert,” Eddard spoke, his voice quiet. “And they were murdered. Justice should be served.” 

“This is WAR,” Robert thundered, his voice shaking the hall. He was still weak from his wounds, but his fury had him standing tall and imposing. “You know as well as I that so long as they lived, my claim to the throne would always be second-guessed. It had be done Ned, and you know it.” 

Eddard’s hands closed into fists. “I can’t support a man who dismisses the slaughter of babes. Enemy or friend.” With that, he turned to his men. Jorah straightened. “We ride for Storm’s End,” he said, his voice tight and gloomy. His jaw was tight with rage, and it looked as though it was taking everything in him not to unleash on his King. 

“Ned!” Robert shouted after them as they filed out of the Keep. “NED, GET BACK HERE. I COMMAND YOU TO RETURN AT ONCE! NED!” 

The sound made Jorah’s skin prickle, and he half-expected a spear to be thrown through his back. Yet, they were not attacked. The King and his portion of the army remained still as the Northmen rode away from the Keep and through the City. They joined up with their main force outside of the City and began their march for Storm’s End. ‘So,’ Jorah thought to himself as he looked away at the Baratheon banner swinging at the top of the Red Keep, ‘King Robert Baratheon the First begins his rule atop the murdered bodies of two infants and a discarded wife.’ His stomach tightened with apprehension. It was thick in the air. His men understood the consequences of their Lord’s actions. If Lord Stark and King Robert did not make amends, the relationship between North and South would be forever strained. 

Naturally, Jorah believed Eddard had the right of it. At least in regards to one’s honor. There were some things too bleak even for war. Perhaps that had been why Tywin Lannister had ordered it. The Lannister name was sullied instead of Baratheon. ‘Clever way to ingratiate oneself to the new King that you only recently decided to support,’ he mused. The ill feeling wormed at his stomach. 

Had they traded one Mad King for a bloodthirsty one?


	7. The Siege of Storm's End

“The castle has been sieged for almost a year now. I bet we find naught but bones and a few cannibals inside,” one of the soldiers said. 

“Trust the Tyrells and Redwynes to play guard to a bunch of dead men,” the soldier’s friend jibed. “Gives ‘em a good excuse to just sit on their fat arses and eat all day.” 

“Mind your tongue,” Jeor rumbled low, his voice stern. The two men shut up immediately, looking properly scolded. Jorah smirked, riding beside his father along the column of men. He knew the sting of admonishment well. It was almost a pleasure to see it used on someone else now and then. “Those men have faced horrors worse than you. They deserve our complete respect. Or perhaps you’d like to spend a few months with naught to eat but a bit of bread and some unlucky mice?” 

“No, m’lord,” the two soldiers grumbled, their heads lowered. 

Jorah could just see the large castle looming ahead. Storm’s End was an impressive sight. He’d read about it in his books, but the descriptions had barely done it justice. Of the actual castle, Jorah could only see a huge tower with battlements adorning it. The rest of the castle was hidden behind a huge, thick curtain wall made of smooth stone. He’d heard the legends of this wall. “It’s said that spells were woven into the stonework,” he said aloud, glancing at his father. He had to be mindful of talking such nonsense to his father. Jeor oft thought his head was too far buried in the clouds. A result of spending too much time with his mother’s books. 

Jeor eyed him now, giving a guffaw sound. He was saved by his Aunt, Maege, who had decided to ride all the way from Bear Island to see the war end. “It’s kept the Tyrells out. And they grow everywhere.” 

“Durran, the first Storm King, was said to have built it during the Dawn Age,” Jorah told her, seizing on the opportunity to tell the story. “The gods killed his family and guests, and so Durran Godsgrief declared war on them. He built six castles, each larger and more formidable than its predecessor, but all were destroyed by the storms. Durran received help from the Children of the Forest for this last one, the seventh. The Children used their magic to raise walls which resisted the storm’s attack. The gods were unable to break this castle, and Durran defeated them. Since then, Storm’s End has never fallen by siege or storm.” 

Jeor grunted. “And I heard tale a young boy who would grow to be Bran the Builder instructed Durran on how to construct the beast. Stories are unreliable. They change in each mouth they rest in.” His father gave him a gruff look, and then rode forward to ride beside Lord Stark. 

Maege clicked her tongue. “My brother has never had a soft heart or songs or stories. I remember your mother would straddle him down just to share with him her favorite new tale.” Jorah’s jaw tightened, though he greedily grasped onto this new discovery of his mother. “I think they remind him too much of her.” Maege lifted her head. “We bears are a tough sort. Coarse. Hard. We don’t say the soft words so many others abuse. But I can say it for him. He loved your mother something fierce, nephew. Sometimes you remind him too much of her, and in the face of so much pain, all a bear can do is back away.” Jorah nodded in understanding. Maege sighed and looked ahead wistfully. “Don’t suppose we’ll have a fight, do you? Been some time since I killed a man.” 

That pulled a small smirk from his lips. The She-Bear stirreth. “Depends on if Mace Tryell has had word from King’s Landing,” he replied. “You may have ridden hard for nothing, Aunt.” 

She gave a disgruntled sigh at that. “More’s to the pity. Ah well. There’s always pirates that need a good spanking with a bear claw,” she winked at him. That brought a chuckle from his lips. The army rode forward, nearing Storm’s End. House Mormont rode behind House Stark, and so Jorah was able to see the Tyrell flags lower in surrender once they were close enough. A bloodless fight then. Lord Stark rode ahead with his father and a few other men, meeting Mace Tyrell and his own entourage in the middle of the field. The army stood, tense, in case it was a trap. 

The Tyrell and Redwyne banners were passed over, and distantly, Jorah could see their armies laying their swords on the ground. A surrender in truth then. “Oh, bother,” he heard Maege mutter at his side and smirked. Lord Stark rode back and handed the banners to one of his men. 

“The siege is over!” he shouted. “Storm’s End is ours! Aid those inside. They have starved for a long time. They will not be able to walk.” 

With that, they rode forward. From behind the rock curtain, Jorah could hear weak cries of victory and relief. The castle was opened to them, and a few rode within to help bring out those who had been holding the castle. Jorah rode in, dismounting quickly when he saw . . . skeletons. They were men, but he had never seen such gaunt bodies before. Their skin was stretched tight over bone. Many were too weak to wear their armor, and so they sat here and there, in clothes. Some were even naked. They’d eaten their clothes, he had later learned. 

Jorah was ill with all that met his sight. The suffering was . . . incredible. Yet it was not equal. Obviously, Stannis Baratheon had been methodical in choosing who would receive the most food. It took a cold but strong strategist to do that. The—now—royal family was among those were more healthy. They were still gaunt and weak, but Jorah didn’t see the deadness in their eyes as he did with others. They were escorted quickly out of the castle. 

Another man came out not long after, and those who saw him cried out, “Onion Knight! Onion Knight! Onion Knight!” The man, who had a slathering of white hair across his face, looked almost uncomfortable with the praise. He was holding a bandage hand to his chest. It looked as though his fingers were bleeding. The spectacle was so odd, Jorah moved over to a Baratheon soldiers and inquired as to who the man was. 

“That’s Davos Seaworth,” the man replied, admiration warming his tone. “He came in not too long ago. Managed to sneak right past the Redwyne naval blockade and brought us food. He’s a hero to us all,” hr soldier told him. “Without him, we’d have likely started eating our dead.” 

“Why ‘Onion’ though?” Jorah pressed. 

The soldier laughed. “Because all he managed to smuggle was onions and salted fish. It’s a wonder the reek didn’t get him caught. I can’t complain though. I may vomit at the sight of another onion, but it saved my life. Think I’ll make it a holiday in my family. The Day of the Onion!” the soldier laughed. It was clear the relief of rescue had turned to giddiness. Not just for him either, but for all. Everywhere Jorah looked, he saw men and women embracing and smiling. Some were even crying tears of relief. Jorah was touched and thanked over and over.

He helped a few men who were too weak to move onto his horse and led them to the wagons which were being filled with the weak and injured. Food was being laid out and given to the starved garrison and their families. Other men were seeing to the surrender of their enemy. Jorah continued to lead his horse back and forth, bringing food with him as he went to pass along to those who needed it. 

Later that night, they camped outside of the castle. Jorah sat beside a campfire, eating his own meal and listening to the jokes and bawdy tales surrounding him. The mood was lively. The war was over now. It had to be. At least, their part in it was. Now was the time of celebration and feasting. Some of the Mormont men and women were celebrating early . . . if the cries of pleasure and passion from the surrounding tents were anything to go by. 

“Lord Stark has gone,” his father said, sitting down beside him with a bowl of food himself. “He’s taken a few others. They ride for Dorne. He’s received word that his sister is there.” 

Jorah frowned at this news. “Will we not ride with him?”

His father shook his head. “We have orders to disband and return home. The war is over for us. We must see to our dead and wounded and return to work.” 

It was over in truth then. “They’ll leave the Queen alone? And her babes?” 

There was a tense moment, and Jorah knew the answer before his father even spoke. “We received a missive shortly after nightfall. It was for Lord Stannis. He did not share what his brother’s orders were, but he said he needed to borrow some men to rebuild a fleet.” Jeor paused to eat some food. Mid-chew, he continued, “only one place left that warrants a fleet.”

“Dragonstone,” Jorah finished for him. “Robert the Butcher then,” he frowned at this. Jeor gave him a look of warning. He bit down on the rest of his words . . . that Robert had already sanctioned the murder of innocent children and women. What was another few skulls to add to the collection? To a newly made King? Nothing. “A pregnant woman,” he shook his head. 

“It’s a dishonorable deed,” Jeor agreed quietly. “But one we must accept or else this rebellion will die in its crib.” His father sighed heavily. “Put it from your mind, son. Let us turn our thoughts instead to the harvesting of fish. I have a few new designs to test out for our nets . . .”

 

SEVERAL MONTHS LATER . . . 

There were numerous funerals after that. As heir to Bear Island, Jorah had to join his father to attend them all. Their own people, and then their allies. The biggest funeral, however, belonged to Lyanna Stark. Their lord had been unable to rescue her in time. She had been holed away in the Tower of Joy in Dorne. A great legend had died that day as well. Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, had fallen in combat against Eddard Stark. It was a remarkable feat for the Northern Lord. Jorah had listened with some interest to the accomplishments Ser Arthur Dayne had done over the years. It was a match Jorah would have loved to have witnessed. 

Winterfell was overcrowded with those who wished to pay their respects to their liege-lady. All the way from Dorne, Eddard had carried her bones to be buried here with the rest of the Stark family. Dressed in his finest black edged with green, Jorah lowered his head respectfully when Eddard, his brother Benjen, and a few others carried the platform into the tombs. None of those gathered at the funeral were allowed to enter there, save the Stark family itself. The Mormonts had a similar tomb, but instead of statues of their Lords, they had bears. 

One day, he’d be buried there as well. The hide from the bear he had slew in his youth would cover his tomb for the rest of eternity. His hand absently lifted to the bear claw nestled within a leather strap across his chest. He felt it through the thick wool he wore, and he felt bolstered. The platform carrying Lyanna’s remains disappeared into the tomb, and they slowly parted one-by-one. Catelyn Stark waited a moment before entering the tomb, carrying a small baby to her chest. Another woman, a wet-nurse, moved to follow with another babe, but Catelyn stopped her with a harsh word. Jorah didn’t catch the word, but it stopped the nurse in her tracks. She bowed her head and carried the babe away. 

He lifted an eyebrow at the exchange, looking over at his father, who looked as somber as ever. Did Catelyn Stark give twins? He didn’t remember the announcement of such . . . Putting the thought out of mind, he followed his father to the banquet tables where food—and mostly drink—was plentiful. King Robert had brought with him—intentionally or not—a band of minstrels and lute players. They sang sad tunes whilst the company talked quietly with one another. Jorah helped himself to some wine, enjoying the rich flavor. The Starks always had such good wine. 

His father seemed troubled. His brow was more furrowed than normal, and he looked deep in thought. “Did you know Lyanna well, father?” Jorah asked, thinking that perhaps her death had caused him more pain than he knew. 

Jeor looked up at him, finally, blinking, as if to clear whatever thoughts plagued him. “Not as well as her father and eldest brother,” he replied. At Jorah’s questioning gaze, he finally voiced his trouble. “. . . I’m considering taking the Black.”


	8. Tragedy Comes in Threes

SIX YEARS LATER . . . 

Bear Island was unnaturally cold for the season. The chill billowed through his thick cloak, brushing over the wool underneath and making Jorah shiver. He pulled his cloak tighter around him. The spray of sea water from the Bay of Ice kissed his face gently, but it was only adding to his chill. Standing at the end of the dock, he watched the last of his father’s things be packed onto the ferry from the Island to the mainland. Beside him, Jeor wore black, and he kept the silence between them. 

Ever since his father had admitted his desire to join the Night’s Watch, he’d been increasing Jorah’s education on diplomacy and economics. They weren’t a well-off House, and so careful financial education was required for the survival of their people. Apparently, Jorah had proved himself to his father during Robert’s Rebellion. He wished now that he had been a little less successful. Perhaps then his father would have remained a while longer. No matter what talk Jeor gave of honor and doing something worthwhile with his grey years, Jorah still felt the sting of abandonment. 

“We’re ready to shove off, m’lord,” the ferryman called from the boat. 

Jorah stiffened. That rising feeling of loss reached its peak. It expanded through his heart, and he grit his teeth tightly together against the emotion. Jeor moved forward, turning to face him. Reluctantly, he lifted his gaze and met his father’s hard stare. A true Northerner, his father was. Even in the wake of this parting, his eyes were as hard to read as ever. Not even a hint of emotion in its blue depths. A strong hand gripped Jorah’s shoulders, and Jeor told him quietly—though urgently, “remember the lessons I’ve taught to you. Remember our words. Remember your duty to our people. Remember that you’re my son.”

A scoff nearly formed in his throat at that. His son . . . until he took his vows and donned the Black. Then Jeor Mormont would have no family save for his brothers in black. The day he uttered that vow was the day Jorah became an orphan. There was distaste in his mouth. Why did his father feel it was necessary to find a new family? And abandon the old? Were they all just disappointments to him? Had he been a disappointment? But there it was . . . the first sign of emotion in his father’s eyes. It wasn’t regret or sadness, as Jorah had hoped it might be. No, instead he saw urgency. Jeor needed him to understand. Parting on bad terms would do neither of them well. Jorah’s gaze lowered subserviently, and he cleared his throat. 

“I’ll honor my position as Lord of Bear Island and as your son.” He lifted his gaze to his father’s. “I won’t let you down, father.” 

Jeor’s hand squeezed his shoulder tighter. The only sign of affection he’d receive, he knew. They were men of the North, after all. The hand was removed, and Jorah watched as Jeor untied his sword around his waist and handed it to him. Longclaw. Jorah took it reverently, his hand fitting into the bear etched pommel. Valyrian steel. They were among the few Minor Houses to have such a valuable sword. This blade, very likely, was worth all of Bear Island and then some to the right buyer. “It’s yours now,” Jeor said, releasing his grip on the sword. “Be worthy of it.” 

Jorah nodded, then strapped it onto his belt. The weight of the ancestral sword did not drag him to the side with it, but instead strengthened his spine. He stood taller. Pride filled his heart. “Farewell, Father,” he said, the words stronger sounding than he thought they would be. 

“Farewell, Jorah, my son,” Jeor replied. “Send word when your child is born.” Then he turned abruptly away and boarded the ferry. Jorah watched the ferrymen untie from the dock and steer the ferry across the watery distance to the mainland. His father never looked back. Jorah did not stop watching until his father became a tiny dot. When he eventually returned to Mormont Hall, he was greeted by his new title, Lord Jorah of Bear Island. Yet, the former Lord of Bear Island’s last wish never came to fruition . . . 

FIVE MONTHS LATER . . . 

Wailing filled Mormont Hall, every room and every crevice of every room. Jorah could not escape it anywhere he went. The sound of his wife’s agony followed him like a ghost. The child was finally arriving, and since this was the first time that his lady wife had carried to term, there was much hope that this child would survive. Two others had been miscarried, oft times too young for anything to have properly formed. This one had to survive. His first duty as a Lord was to make an heir. It was the oldest rule in the book. 

Pushing out of the Hall, Jorah took refuge on the balcony overlooking the training yard. It was empty, as the night had approached them. Elena had been in labor for the better part of the day. Surely, it must end soon? His hands gripped the wood of the balcony, fingers clenching. Vaguely, he wondered if he should have traveled to Deepwood Motte to pray in the Godswood. He was not a devout man by any measure, but this standing here utterly useless was more than he could bear. 

Silence suddenly crept through the Hall, against the wails, it made the difference stark and forbidding. Jorah felt his stomach tighten. For good or ill, the deed was done. Pushing away from the balcony, he entered the Hall once more, heading for his bedchambers where Elena had taken refuge to birth their child. Every step led further weight to his apprehension. It was too quiet. Where was the squalling of a newborn? The excited murmurs of the servants? At the very least, where were the sobs of his lady wife? 

“My lord,” a midwife greeted him at the door. Her hands and apron were covered in blood. She even had a smear across her cheek. That was too much blood. His body filled with dread. He could feel the beating of his heart in his chest in trepidation. 

“. . . Tell me the news,” Jorah said quietly when the midwife hesitated. 

She gripped her hands together, then looked down shamefully. “The child was stillborn, my lord. And . . . and your wife did not survive its birth. I am sorry, my lord.”

Jorah felt the breath leave his lungs in a heavy exhale, as if he had been given a blow to the stomach. Elena . . .? Walking past the midwife, he entered the room. Other midwives and servants were quickly cleaning the mess. He did not know where to look first. His wife rested on their bed, still and pale. Sweat still covered her body, which was the palest he had ever seen. Her very brow was still furrowed, as if she still yet strained to give their child life. Jorah touched her more tenderly than he had ever touched her before. His inability to love this woman had doomed her, he was sure of it. She had been unhappy . . . and it had sapped all strength of her. Even if she had been sickly to begin with, he had certainly never given cause to make her mood better. 

“Leave me,” he ordered quietly. “I will tend to it myself.” It was the least he owed her. The servants and midwives bowed—or curtsied—and left the room. Heaving a deep sigh, he reached for the bowl of warm water and finished cleaning the blood from his lady wife. “I’m sorry, Elena,” he murmured to her quietly. Jorah was surprised with the amount of grief he actually felt. Though he may not have loved her, the two had shared a good friendship. She had oft put up with his penchant for stories and even encouraged him to tell a few tales before bed. This woman had shared many things with him for the past ten years. Knowing he would wake on the morrow, and every day after, without her at his side was abrupt. She had become something he had grown accustomed to, and now there was an absence he felt keenly. 

Once she had been cleaned, Jorah laid her legs out properly, and then covered her with a fur blanket. Kissing her temple, he brushed her hair back and smoothed her brow. Now, she would know rest. Perhaps, even, happiness. It was a fanciful thought. For Elena’s sake, he hoped it was true. With her body tended to, he finally dragged his attention to the still, small form wrapped in a blood-stained blanket. Cold sweat broke out at his temple and at the back of his neck. This was not something he wanted to see . . . but this was his child. 

Slowly, he unwrapped the blanket and set eyes on his stillborn . . . son. His hair, caked with blood, was as blond as his own. He was curled protectively in the fetal position, arms crossed over his tiny chest. Everything about him was tiny. This was the first Jorah had been able to see a child of his own. So, as he lightly pressed his finger into the little palm of his son, he found himself releasing a dry sob. The grief he felt here doubled. His son. Unable to even breathe once in this world. It was difficult to tell why. Despite the blood, the body looked fully formed and healthy. Nothing to his eye seemed out of place, all Jorah saw was . . . perfection. 

His finger gently cleaned the blood from his son’s body, afraid of using his entire hand for fear of crushing the tiny body. He’d seen newborns before, but there was something precious and singular in viewing one’s own creation. “My son,” he breathed, almost a wheeze against the pain that constricted his lungs and throat. “My son.” A longing filled his chest that had never been present before. A desire to experience life as a father. To be more than just a Master-of-Arms and Lord to his son, but someone warm and loving. His Aunt would likely laugh at him, and his own father would probably disapprove, but the sight of this stolen promise filled him with a tender love he’d yet to experience. 

Fatherhood was something he’d always dreaded. He saw it as a means to end one’s adventures. To become respectable and grim, like his father. Yet now that he wanted it, craved it, the position was taken from him. So, Jorah quelled the feeling in his heart before the savagery of his loss drove him mad. Instead, he wept a few tears, releasing his sorrow, kissed the top of his son’s head and bundled him in something clean. 

Carrying the infant in his arm, he left the room, allowing the Maester to perform final rights upon Elena’s body and prepare her for burial. Jorah walked out of the Hall and into the crisp night air. Following the path down to the Mormont tombs, he walked through the mausoleum-like entrance and walked down a few steps into the tomb. Lighting a torch, he walked silently past ancient members of his family until he reached his own tomb, created when he had reached the age of manhood. It rested beside his father’s, which also stood ready. Their respective bear furs already were draped over the top of the stone tombs. 

Setting the torch into a slot on the wall, Jorah gently set the body of his son atop his tomb. Grabbing a shovel, he began to dig a hole beside his tomb. Only those who had passed the Right of Passaged would be buried in the Mormont Tombs, but he made an exception for his children. There were two other small graves surrounding his tomb. Since Jorah could not tell if they had been boys or girls, he had simply scratched ‘Child’ onto stone and placed it ahead of their graves. Digging and digging, he released his pain from grief into the work. 

Once the grave was big enough, he set the shovel down and picked up the body of his son. Kissing his forehead once more, he wrapped the body tightly in the cloth, ensuring it would remain. “You would have made a fine heir of Bear Island, Geralt Mormont,” he murmured, so naming his son. “Rest with your brothers and sisters, and all the family eager to meet you until your father joins you.” Tenderly, he rested the body into the ground, and then buried him. A few more tears escaped his eyes as he did so, but he did not stop his work to wipe them away.

Once the hole was covered, he chipped another piece of rock from the wall and scratched, ‘Geralt Mormont’ onto it. Digging it deep into the ground ahead of the grave, Jorah allowed himself to feel the pain a moment longer . . . and then buried it, as a man of the North was supposed to. Picking up the torch once more, he left the tomb, his face harder than when he had entered. 

His night was not over. Retreating to his study, he lit a candle and sent two messages. One was to the Glovers at Deepwood Motte, informing them of their daughter’s passing. The other was to his father. 

Father,   
I find myself a widow and thrice-denied father. There is no heir of Bear Island.   
Your son,  
Jorah

It was a short message, but it was all his father needed to know. Both messages were sent off with ravens, and Jorah faced a long night without sleep. His rest did not return in full until after Elena was buried at Deepwood Motte per her parents’ desire. She was put to rest in the Godswood along with the rest of her family. To their credit, her family did not blame Jorah for the death of their daughter, though he supposed he was doing that much enough on his own. 

He lost himself for a time in fishwives and drink when the sun fell, and he could pretend he wasn’t Lord of Bear Island. Otherwise, he refocused his efforts on the export of fish and maxing their profits. It was dull, but necessary. Months passed without incident . . . until . . . 

“M’lord!” came a call from an urgent rider.

Jorah, bare-chested and knee-deep in water where he was helping lay out a net, wiped the sweat from his brow and walked ashore. The rider dismounted and rushed to meet him. “Calm now, what news brings you to nearly killing your horse?” Jorah asked, stopping just before the panting young man. 

The rider thrust a scroll into his hands. The seal was a Direwolf. Through heavy panting, the rider managed to gasp out, “House Greyjoy has declared war!”


	9. The Siege of Pyke

The parchment stretched out before him, the Direwolf sigil broken and bleeding on the oak desk. Candlelight flickered over the words, making them difficult to see under the dim light, but Jorah had the words burned in his memory. 

_-Jorah Mormont_  
_Lord of Bear Island,_  
_Victarion Greyjoy has taken Lannisport. Rodrik Greyjoy is leading an assault against Seaguard. Lord Balon Greyjoy has declared himself King of the Iron Isles and seeks to take the Seven Kingdoms. Form up your men and march South for Moat Cailin. We’ll join our armies there and discuss strategy. Move swiftly, time is not in our favor._  
_-Eddard Stark_  
_Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North_

War. Jorah brought his fingers to his jaw, scratching the stubble. There was no Jeor Mormont to rely on counsel now. He had to make the orders. It was one thing to look at a map in practice and order imaginary forces around to beat his opponent in game . . . quite another knowing it was for real. His men would be eager for it, he knew. House Greyjoy had always been a special pain in their arses. If not pirates, their island was often under attack from Greyjoy raiders, looking to pay the damned iron price for goods and women and gold. Killing a few extra kraken would only serve to bolster his men and people of Bear Island. 

“What have you there, cousin?” came a voice from the door. 

Jorah looked over to see his young cousin, of the age of 12, standing with her hand gripping a training sword at her hip. Her hair was cropped and short, and there was mud on her cheek. His Aunt’s eldest daughter, Dacey, was as fierce as her mother. He’d watched her train, even sparred with her himself from time-to-time. She was adamant about being a warrior woman from the Mormont legends of old. She found the statue of the woman suckling a babe in one arm with an ax in the other to be her personal heroine, even though the history of the statue was not written. He oft spent afternoons coming up with stories for the statue with her. They competed on who had the best story. Suffice it to say, he held a fondness for his cousin, as if she were his sister in truth. 

“Blood,” he replied, setting the parchment down. “The promise of it.” He rose, lifting a hand to stroke through his blond hair, which was beginning to recede prematurely. Resting his fist against his desk, he glanced over at her. She looked eager. Dacey reminded himself so much of himself at her age. Eager to prove her worth, to taste battle and forge one’s own adventures. Had she been born a few years earlier, he was sure his Aunt would have wanted him to take her on as his squire. It was likely what she hoped for now. “House Greyjoy has attacked Lannisport and declared war on the Seven Kingdoms and our King.”

“Sounds like they could use a few bears,” Dacey said, her eyes level with his, unwavering. “We’ve been fighting Krakens since the day we acquired Bear Island.”

She knew her history. Jorah gave a light smile. “Aye, they could use a few Mormonts. But you’re too young yet, cousin,” he told her, burying that hope before it could grow. 

“But I’m ready!” she declared, squaring her shoulders in an attempt to look bigger, older, ready to fight. “Mother says I fight as well as she did at her age.”

“Perhaps you do,” Jorah agreed, “but you need to fight as well as she does now. You’re still a cub, cousin,” he told her gently. Disappointment was flaring in her eyes, and it hurt him to deny her, but he knew he was the right in this. Crossing to her, he lightly placed his hand on her shoulder. “A time will come for you to go to war. As your mother did. Save your fire and bravery for then. You’ll need both if you wish to survive.” Jorah allowed a small smile to grace his lips. “Stay a child awhile longer, Dacey. I assure you, adulthood is not all it promises to be.”

She heaved a heavy sigh but nodded. “Very well. Shall I fetch my mother then?”

Maege Mormont would need to take over the duties of Bear Island whilst Jorah was away. He nodded, and his cousin left. His thoughts traveled to the numbers he could call upon to take up arms. Men and women. His House knew how to fight men like Greyjoys. As he began to look through the amount of food stored away, his Aunt walked into his study. “Dacey told me we’re at War with the Greyjoys. Are you ready to serve, nephew?”

His gaze touched on his Aunt. She was dressed in boiled leather and wool as ever. Ready to fight at the smallest whisper. “Our Lord has called us to gather our banners and ride for Moat Cailin. Seaguard is under attack, and they need aid. I’ll give us a day to prepare, but we must ride at next morning light. Until I return, I charge you with the welfare of Bear Island and its people.” Traditional words. 

Maege bowed her head. “Your first war all alone.” Jorah kept his expression still. “You’re ready for it. You’ve been too long at the fishing nets. A war is just what you need. Show those Greyjoys why they haven’t set foot on Bear Island in years.”

**THREE WEEKS LATER . . .**

“Make way for Lord Jorah!” the crier shouted, the gathered soldiers moving slowly off of the path as Jorah rode forward into Moat Cailin. A bannerman rode at his side, the bear of House Mormont flapping proudly in the breeze as they rode. The crier led them into the castle after dismounting, and he was taken to a large table where two handfuls of men were gathered. Jorah recognized the banners of the Umbers, Greystark, Karstark, Reed . . . yes, he knew all of these men. Their Lord had called, and they had come to serve. 

“My lord,” Jorah bowed before Eddard, who was at the head of the table. 

“Lord Jorah. We’re pleased to see you,” Eddard greeted him, the chattering voices quieting as order began. “Now that we have all assembled, we can discuss our march.” He stood and gestured to a map of Westeros before them. Jorah took the last seat available and gazed at the map. Carved wooden markers rested above the Iron Islands, Lannisport and Seaguard. “As we speak, House Mallister defends against an attack from House Greyjoy. The King’s brother, Lord Stannis, sails to intercept the iron fleet here,” he pointed to Fair Isle. “The King has ordered us to aid Seaguard, if House Greyjoy has not been thrown off by then. If the krakens are returned to that bloody sea they enjoy so much, then we march for Pyke. Lord Balon’s rebellion brands him a traitor. He doesn’t think our King has half the loyal following as he thinks he does. We’ll show him how poorly he got it wrong.” 

Jorah looked at the map. Imagined the fighting. The iron fleet was a formidable force. House Greyjoy was a seafaring family. The navy was in their blood. Despite that, they had to contend with the navy of the entire Seven Kingdoms. The Redwynes were formidable as well. He saw their marker beside that of Lord Stannis. If the iron fleet did not break against them, then they’d break when they came to land and found the rest of the Seven Kingdoms gathered to defy them, fighting under the Baratheon crowned stag. 

Division, if it had existed, vanished the moment Balon Greyjoy gave them a new cause to rally against. Even Eddard and Robert had made amends. Jorah had seen it during Lyanna’s funeral so many years ago. Grief brought people together, replacing past-anger and hurt easily. “We leave at first light,” Eddard said, and they were dismissed. Jorah rose and returned to his horse. Leaving the Moat, he returned to the encampment for his forces. Dismounting in front of his tent, he bent to tie his horse, when he saw a familiar crop-cut head duck from view. 

‘No,’ he thought, feeling a heightened annoyance spark as he marched over to the spot where the head disappeared. Sure enough, a guilty-looking Dacey Mormont was hiding herself behind a stack of sacks filled with grain. “Cousin,” Jorah said tightly, his arms crossing his broad chest. “This is not Bear Island.”

Dacey pushed herself up and stood her ground, giving him a fierce look. “With all due respect, cousin, this is Bear Island,” she gestured to those around them. “You didn’t notice me for weeks. A few more, and no one would have ever known,” she huffed, her own arms crossing over her chest. 

“Where does your mother think you are!?” Jorah asked, shocked that he had neither noticed her before now, nor received an angry letter from Maege warning him of Dacey’s disappearance. 

This caused that look of defiance on her features to dim a little and guilt to take its place. “She . . . thinks I am in Winterfell. Giving . . . Lady Catelyn some extra help . . . while the men are away.” She bit her lip, then stepped forward quickly. “Please, don’t tell her! Let me stay! I want to fight!”

A scoff left his lips. “And have your mother skin me for her new rug? I enjoy my skin where it is, thank-you.” Dacey begged him with her eyes, desperation written all over her face. “No, Dacey. You can’t stay. It’s too dangerous. And I don’t just mean the fighting. War turns men into beasts. Before and after.” 

Dacey burst, “but what if I write her and tell her? Will you let me stay then?”

Jorah sighed, giving her a measured look. “. . . Fine,” he finally relented. “Write your letter. Until then, you stay in my tent. Don’t stray far from our camp. And if we’re attacked, by the Old Gods, stay out of sight.” Dacey nodded, a bright grin on her lips. She hurried into his tent and started writing her letter. Jorah scratched his cheek irritably. “Damned wartime babysitter,” he grumbled to himself, following in after. 

By the time they reached Seaguard, Aunt Maege had written a reply to her daring daughter. She was allowed to stay, but Jorah was to keep her far from the fighting. So, he had taken her on as his squire. If she wanted a taste of war, then he’d give her the bitterest. Next time, she might not be so willing to leave her warm bed on Bear Island. To her credit, she obeyed his orders without complaint. Even when he commanded her the most mundane of tasks. 

Now, with the threat of battle near, he was mindful to keep her away from the front line. It seemed his caution was unneeded, however. Seaguard had been able to throw off the Greyjoys without their aid. Jorah rode ahead to join with the other Lords. He felt a momentary surge of pride when he realized that the King was also there. Robert Baratheon had brought all the forces of the South with him. Thousands of men were armed and ready to storm the Iron Islands. Considering the smoke clogging the island, Jorah suspected that some of his forces were already there, attacking Balon Greyjoy directly. Lord Stark conferred with the King and higher Lords, before he departed and joined his Vassals. 

“Castle Botley has been taken. Our men are fighting in Lordsport as we speak. By the time we cross over, the town will be ours,” Eddard informed them. 

“All that’s left is Pyke itself,” Lord Karstark pointed out. 

“Precisely,” Eddard nodded. “We lay siege the moment we hit the island. Line up your men like this.” He knelt and drew a map, showing them where to place their forces. Jorah noted the watchtower that he’d be putting his men near. Easy to remember. “King Robert is bringing the siege weapons. The moment the wall falls, we charge. We end this rebellion today.” 

“Aye!” came the firm agreements. 

Jorah gripped Longclaw’s pommel, his fingers tracing over the bear absently. All around him, the men bristled with excited, apprehensive energy. The moments before bloodshed were always the worst . . . the waiting . . . It was almost a state of madness, trying to keep the beast inside at bay until the moment it could be unleashed. The promise of death hung heavily in the air. Riding back to his men, he held himself tall in his saddle. This was his moment. He had to prove his worth as warrior and commander now, if he hoped to gain the trust and respect of his men for all battles to come. An army was only as strong as their leader. His father had been a good commander. The men would die for him gladly. He had to make them want to die for him as well.

Ordering them onto the ships, they squished in together and were sent off across the water towards Pyke as soon as the last man jumped aboard. Jorah stared at the island, at the smoke rising from the castle and town which were already seeing action. His men around him kept moving, loosening themselves up before battle. Some of the women gathered their hair up into pony tails before putting their helms on, if they had helms. Each one bore the proud Mormont bear on their chest. These were his people. They were here because of him. They needed a speech. Father always gave them a speech. 

As the ship rocked back and forth, he took a spot up near the helm where they could see him. “HOUSE MORMONT!” he shouted over the roar of the water and wind. His soldiers stopped jostling about and looked up at him. Many were weathered, and Jorah felt how green he was. He’d served in Robert’s Rebellion, and even still, he felt like more a green squire than a veteran under those hard stares. Steeling himself, he grabbed Longclaw. He was Lord of Bear Island. “Across the way rests an ancient enemy of our House! Men who have pillaged our homes and stolen our families. They’ve grown bold. Or perhaps, even, afraid of us. They seek to expand their raiding to waters south of our home. Why might that be? Perhaps they’ve grown tired of being swatted down by the bear’s claw?” There were cries of ‘aye!’ at this. “We’re Mormonts,” he told them, his chin rising, the banners flying conveniently around him and aiding the heroic scene he was attempting to set. “We feast on Kraken! Aye!?”

“AYE!” was shouted back at him, a few shield thumps as well. 

“And no one— _no one_ —knows how to kill their like better than Bears. Aye!?”

“AYE!” 

Jorah eyed the shoreline. Almost there. “Then let’s have a feast!” His voice cracked with the ferocity with which he spoke, the veins standing out against his neck. “Let’s make them remember just why they always leave Bear Island a few tentacles short! Make them shite their pants! Tell them who’s coming for them! Brothers and sisters of Bear Island! Where do you stand!?”

“HERE WE STAND!” they chorused back, the thumping of wood and shield and steel punctuating the words. 

Jorah unsheathed Longclaw, thrusting it up into the air. His blood alit with fire, carried away by his own words, and his soldiers’ response to them. The entire ship was buzzing with energy. There was a bit of a jolt as the boat slid itself into shallow waters. Anchor was cast away, and the men grabbed their weapons and last bits of their armor. “You’re House Mormont. You’re worth ten of every Kraken!” He moved away from the helm and towards the gangplank which had been lowered into the water. “BROTHERS AND SISTERS!” he bellowed, mounting the gangplank. “HOUSE MORMONT!” He waited until they were leaning in, and then calmly said, “go eat.” 

Yelling erupted after that, and Jorah swung around, leading the way down the plank and into the water. Lordsport was near, and he saw the others making their way to Pyke, which loomed ahead on its rocky cliffs. The water collected at his calves, and he had to fight through it to keep from slipping and drowning in his armor. With Longclaw raised high above his head, he marched them hurriedly to shore where some other of the forces were awaiting. He lined his men up where the battle map had instructed him to do so and watched as the siege equipment started firing. His soldiers were shouting at Pyke’s walls. 

“Here, fishy, fishy!”

“Bear Island has chased you all the way down here, little squids!”

“HERE WE STAND!”

And so on. Jorah couldn’t help but feel a bit of pride at how much he had roused them. He was rather hungry for it as well, and he was surprised by his eagerness. Every time a rock failed to destroy the wall, the men groaned in disappointment, and he shared that disappointment. There was no love lost between House Greyjoy and House Mormont. Jorah was ready to hit back at the people who enjoyed ransacking his own home for once. In their own home, no less. “Jorah!” he heard a small shout, and he turned back to his line of soldiers to see Dacey dressed in armor far too big for her, holding a mace twice her head. 

Exasperation filled his chest, and he walked over to her. “Dacey, you’re not supposed to be here,” he scolded her fiercely. 

“I’m here now. You can’t stop me from fighting,” Dacey told him just as fiercely. 

“You can’t even hold that mace. You’re going to get yourself killed. Get back on the ship and wait there until I get back,” Jorah ordered her firmly. 

Dacey gave him a look of defiance. “And what if I’m not there to protect you? I’m your squire, I’m supposed to be at your side and watching your back. I have to protect the Lord of Bear Island!” 

Jorah released a small breath, reigning in his irritation. “If I have to keep an eye out for you, I will get hurt,” he told her. “If you want to protect me, then you need to stay on the ship and out of sight. That is the only way I will know you’re safe, and I can concentrate on winning this battle.” Dacey frowned heavily, though he could barely make out the rest of her face in the helm that was practically eating her head. “Go, cousin,” he said softer. “I will see you after.”

“. . . Promise?” she said, and this time, he could see the fear in her eyes. 

“You have my word. Now—“ his words were cut off as a boulder finally smashed into a watchtower, making it fall onto the wall and forming a breach. There was wild laughter beside him as a man in red ran by with a flaming sword. “Bloody—“ that was a terrifying sight. “To the ship, Dacey, run!” Jorah urged, and then ran himself in the opposite direction. “CHARGE!” he roared, and he took off after the flaming sword. 

The dust and smoke from the settling rubble was just clearing as Jorah climbed through the breach and made it through . . . into a giant swarm of Greyjoy soldiers. The man in red was cackling wildly and swinging his flaming sword around, lighting this and that man on fire. Jorah fought a bit more conventionally. The soldiers obviously hadn’t counted on him to just charge into the thick of them, but he did just that. Longclaw rang out, slashing through bodies left and right. Jorah found himself locked in a frenzy. He wasn’t even sure where he was or who he was. All he knew was he needed to strike here, parry there, punch and bite and smash. 

Now and then, he became aware of some pain, but the sudden bloodlust which consumed him had him barreling through the Greyjoys as if they were warm butter, and he a sharp knife. His men and others made their way through the breach, and he and the man in red were joined by a more sizable force. Together, they pushed the Greyjoys back bit-by-bit. Some of their men were on top as well, Jorah could see some of their banners running to and fro. Stark, Karstark, Baratheon. His own men were around him. Jorah was pleased to see that they were tearing into the Krakens with particular ease. Some likely had a score to settle with the Greyjoys. 

Along with the fevered cries of soldiers, there were also screams of agony as men bled to death, or were trampled underfoot. Somewhere, Jorah could hear someone shouting that they had lost their hand, that they couldn’t find their hand. The heat of battle kept him from focusing, however, as he warded off an attack from some foolish Greyjoy who was wielding a harpoon. It took one well-placed strike from Longclaw to cut the harpoon in half. Aghast, the Greyjoy could barely utter a plea for his life before Jorah had his sword embedded through his chest, blood splattering everywhere. 

There was no ebb and flow in this battle. The Ironborn were outnumbered ten to one. They retreated further and further, bodies abandoned as the armies pursued. They fought all the way to the Great Keep. The Ironborn did not surrender easily. Jorah had to give them credit for that. They were a tough sort. Yet, eventually, they surrendered. Jorah was among those who had pushed and led the way into the Great Keep. The man in red was sitting comfortably on a large table, his sword now extinguished. Bloodied and exhausted, his arm aching from the reverberations one received when fighting with a sword, Jorah took a few steadying breaths, then sought out his men to organize them and see to the wounded. 

It was time for the higher Lords to make their terms of peace. House Mormont had done its duty. As had he, if his reception was anything to go by. Every Mormont soldier he passed gripped his shoulder or shook his hand or bowed in deference. Robert Baratheon may have won another war, but Jorah had won the love of his soldiers. The pride in their eyes warmed his heart, and he reflected it back to them. Never had he felt more assure of himself and his rule. 

Later, after they had returned to the mainland and were encamped, Jorah was writing a letter to his father to describe the battle. “Cousin!” came Dacey’s voice from behind him at the tent flap. Turning in his seat, he looked over at her and smiled when she rushed in and hugged him. “You’re alive!”

“As I promised,” Jorah replied, ruffling her hair. “Here,” he reached into his pocket and pulled out a compass that had an etching of a Kraken on its back. He’d found it amidst the rubble, along with the body of another Greyjoy heir. “A souvenir from battle.” Dacey took it with wide-eyes, holding it as if it might break in her hands with any tighter of a grasp. “Remember the lessons taught this day,” he told her. “Patience and responsibility.” 

Dacey nodded and hugged him again. Jorah smiled warmly and patted her on the back. “The King wished to see you,” she said suddenly, jarring Jorah completely. 

“What? He—“

“In here? Good!” he heard from his tent flap just as it opened and King Robert Baratheon himself walked into his tent. “Jorah of House Mormont!” the big man greeted. 

Shocked, Jorah fell to his knee immediately and knelt before him. “Your Grace,” he returned the greeting. 

“Stand up, Mormont. Let me look at you.” Jorah did as he was bade and stood before the King. Robert was shorter than himself, though not by much, but he had a far wider chest and shoulder-span than Jorah. It was no wonder. The King enjoyed his Warhammer. Judging by the brain fragments still clinging to his armor and cloak, he had thoroughly enjoyed using his Warhammer today. Robert grunted and clapped his arm. “I heard tale you were the second man to enter the breach. Cut a hole the size of a whore’s cunt doing it, too. Allowed our men to get in easily and really give them a good fucking.”

“I—“ Jorah had no clue what to say, and he was lucky in that the King seemed to know exactly what to say. 

“You’re being Knighted for your bravery. You served the realm well, and the Crown intends on rewarding such bravery. Write to whom you must, but you must ride with us to the Capitol to perform the ceremony.” Jorah could not keep his lips parting slightly from shock. A knight!? “Two weeks from now, you’ll be a bloody knight of the realm. Now shake my hand and pour me some wine! It’s a time of celebration!”


	10. The Tourney of Lannisport

_‘By the Old Gods, do NOT let me piss on the King’s boots,’_ his mind strained. Why hadn’t he thought about his bladder earlier!? Casting an eye around the Seven Gods that lined the Sept, he quickly realized that he might be offending them, and his body might betray him yet. Quickly, he amended, _‘by the Seven, let me hold on a little while longer.’_ Sixteen hours he’d been in this decorative plate armor. His Aunt had insisted he buy something nice and new to celebrate his knighthood, and he had, and now he longed for the easy-access of his leathered kilt, cuisse and greaves. 

They’d marched straight for King’s Landing, celebrating all along their way. Jorah had never been so drunk in his life. Every Mormont man and woman wanted to toast his health and congratulations. At some point, they had made it to King’s Landing, and preparations were immediately put into place for the knighting ceremony. He and another, Jacelyn Bywater, were to be honored at the Sept. Jorah had spent the sixteen hours being fit for his armor for the ceremony, and then watched the blacksmiths hurry through their tasks to have it completed before he had to leave. The armor had still been warm when he had finally put it on. 

Now, here he knelt, humbled, certainly, but most of his consternation was with the battle he was currently having with his bladder. If he managed to survive this, he deserved another knighthood all together. The Sept was packed. Men of the North, the Royal family, High Lords and all were crammed into the tiny space to watch history being made. Jorah lowered his head as King Robert approached. He just wished his father was here to witness his ascension. 

There was a singing of a sword, as it was pulled from its sheath. Jorah pressed his lips together and felt the tip press to his right shoulder. “Jorah of House Mormont, in the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave.” The sword moved to his left shoulder, and he felt its weight once more. “In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just.” Between all of them, the sword moved, and Jorah silently wished that there were five less Gods to go through. “In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the young and innocent. In the name of the Maid, I charge you to protect all women. In the name of the Smith, I charge you to carry strength through all labors done. In the name of the Crone, I charge you to measure wisdom in all matters. In the name of the Stranger, I charge you to carry these duties as Knight unto your death. Arise, Ser Jorah of House Mormont, Knight of the Seven Kingdoms.” 

Jorah rose, and the Septon anointed him with holy oil, and then he turned and faced those gathered who applauded and cheered. Bladder forgotten, he gave a small, almost embarrassed smile, as the crowd cheered his name. It was . . . something he could get used to. With Longclaw at his side, he joined the newly made Ser Jacelyn Bywater and followed the King outside of the Sept. The bells rang, announcing the celebration, and the common people gathered around the Sept. Jorah knew they were here more for the possible chance to catch some charitable coin than to see two newly made Knights, but still, he allowed himself to pretend just for a little while. 

Straight from the Septon, the party paraded through King’s Landing. Instead of returning to the Red Keep, they turned towards the main gate to leave the city. To celebrate the victory, Lannisport was hosting a tourney. The King intended on joining, and so the royal family led the way. Jorah, feeling particularly proud in his new armor, had entered his name into the tourney as well. During the bustle of the parade, he heard a familiar voice call his name and looked down to find Dacey running up to him. “Any word from your mother?” he inquired. 

“She’s to meet us as the tourney. There will be a celebration of your knighting on Bear Island, as well, once we return,” Dacey reported, falling in at his side and admiring his new armor. 

More celebrations? In his name as well. “Was there any word from my father?” he inquired, his voice even. 

“Not yet,” Dacey replied.

Jorah’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. Knowing his father, he was likely busy training and leading raids beyond the Wall. News from the Watch was few and far between. Once his father heard the news of his knighthood, he was sure that he’d send along a letter. Until then, the young Lord of Bear Island fully intended on drinking his fill of celebration. 

**LANNISPORT . . .**

A rejuvenated, excited energy surrounded Lannisport as the competitors and viewers filled the land surrounding the walled city. Tents were pitched for miles. Jorah could have mistaken the encampment for one of an army during wartime, if not for the laughter and drunken singing and general feeling of ease. Whores walked to and fro, eager to earn their year’s salary by taking advantage of a few drunken war veterans. Soldiers who had been green before the Greyjoy Rebellion walked around with an arrogant gate, as if they had killed one of the sons of House Greyjoy themselves. 

House banners were pitched everywhere, some clumped together, but by and large, they were scattered throughout the camp. North rubbed elbows with South. East with West. The hum of conversation bubbled above the large encampment, as if it came from the hovering smoke from the numerous campfires itself. If the realm had been splintered before, it showed no signs of it now. Other than, of course, the few expected brawls over whose knight would triumph. 

Those who intended to compete in the tourney were given rooms in the city of Lannisport. So it was that Ser Jorah Mormont wandered the city, admiring the marketplace. Though Bear Island had its trade, its products were often simple. Few exotic tradesmen ventured as north as the Bay of Ice. Yet here, he found exotic silks and flowers and foods he had never heard of before, let alone seen. Mindful of purse snatchers, he was just about to withdraw some coin to purchase an odd-looking pepper . . . when he chanced to glance over at the stall beside him and froze. 

The Maid herself stood looking through baubles and flowers. Hair as gold as wheat and skin as pale as ivory, the Maid took an Evening Star within her fingers, pressing a sweet kiss to its yellow petals. Food forgotten, Jorah found himself taking the few steps from stall-to-stall and approached the Maid. Surely, this couldn’t be a woman of flesh and blood. It had to be a vision, this . . . Goddess before him! Jorah stood awkwardly beside her for a moment, completely at a loss. This was new territory for him. On Bear Island, he only had to whisper a few racy things into a woman’s ear or give her a certain look to allow him entry into her bed. This woman was no fisherwife, and he felt entirely out of his depth. 

Desperately, he looked to the flower once more. “Forgive me, my lady,” he said quietly, the rich timbre of his voice catching her attention. The young woman turned to him, lifting an eyebrow, as if surprised to be addressed. Jorah became consciously aware of his woolen garb, simple Northern clothes in a place as exotic as this. He didn’t realize then how much he stood out. “You’re making a mistake in purchasing that flower,” he informed her. 

The woman’s eyebrow raised further. “And who pray claims to be such a Master of flowers?” she asked him, her voice teasing. 

“Ser Jorah Mormont,” he replied, only lightly stumbling on the new addition before his name. 

“A _Knight?”_ the woman cooed, tucking a strand of her blond hair behind her ear. Blond. Lannisport. A Lannister then. He was a fool to think he might keep a lion’s interest any longer, but he pressed on. “Very well, Ser Knight. Why should I not purchase this flower?”

“Because you overshadow it,” Jorah replied immediately. “Compared to you, that flower shrinks as if it’s been cast away from the sun.” 

Her other brow raised to join the first. “Well. A Northerner who speaks poetry. I was told they only spoke in long silences interrupted by irritated grunts.” She gestured him closer, and he happily went, cherishing this small victory as much as he did his knighthood. “Prove your worth, Ser Jorah. What flower will accentuate my beauty?” 

“None, my lady,” he said with a small bow of the head. “But perhaps something to accentuate your grace?” he took a Moonbloom, its color a pure white and offered it to her. 

“Ah,” she gave it an amused smile. “These grow all over the place in Oldtown. I have grown tired of seeing them. Something more exotic, my flower Knight.” She replaced the flower, eyeing him with amusement. 

Oldtown? She was not from Lannisport then. “Then red,” Jorah suggested next, picking up the spiceflower and lightly touching her cheek with its petal. “To reflect the passion you inflame in men’s hearts.” Her eyes danced at that, and he felt his chest tighten. 

“You speak poetry. How uncommon,” she looked him over, and Jorah felt his imperfections keenly. Should he have shaved to appear younger? Did she like facial hair? Should he have grown it out longer? He found himself sucking in, and positioning himself in a manner which emphasized his own strength. “Are you sure you are a knight and not a bard?”

“I read,” was Jorah’s simple reply. “More than most. Those Northern silences gives ample opportunity for reflection and thought. We have learned to choose our words carefully.” 

“And, pray tell, what careful words would you spare for me?” the woman asked, taking the flower from him and bringing it to her nose to inhale sweetly. The red was a sultry contrast against her pale skin and golden hair. 

“Only words of worship, my lady,” he replied quietly. 

Silence met his words, and he thought he might have erred or spoken too bluntly. Beauty had made a fool of his tongue, and he was itching to cut it off now for betraying him so eagerly. Yet, at long last, the woman smiled. “You may purchase this for me, Ser Jorah Mormont,” she informed him. Jorah released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and quickly pulled out the appropriate coinage to the florist. The woman handed the flower to him, then held her hair back, exposing her ear. Jorah licked his lips, then gently pressed his fingers against the smooth hair above her ear. Tucking the flower behind her ear, he treated her as delicately as if she was made of the finest glass. Drawing, reluctantly, his hands back, Jorah watched her replace her hair, the flower nestled sweetly within. 

“Do you fight in this tourney, Ser Jorah?” she asked him. 

“I do.”

“Good.” The woman reached into her sleeve and pulled out a handkerchief. “You shall wear my favor. Let us see what luck it might bring you.”

“It will not bring luck,” he told her, taking the handkerchief as if she had just given him silken gold. His fingers and hands treated it as something precious. “Only strength. It is strength which will win me the tourney . . . and what you have provided for me.” 

“I expect a win then,” she teased and curtsied lightly. “Until we meet again, Ser Jorah.”

“Wait!” he called, perhaps more vocally than he had intended, for she turned back to him with a look of surprise. “Who . . . May I ask whose favors I wear?”

The smile was back on her lips, and his heart glowed in his chest. “Lynesse Hightower.” Then, with another twinkle of her eye, she turned away and was eaten up by the bustling crowd. Jorah looked down at the handkerchief in his hands. It was a fine silk. Something rare on Bear Island. The embroidery was well-thought and contained her initials. His thumb, rough and worn, gently stroked over the letters. He had the Maid’s blessing herself. Tucking it tenderly into the collar of his shirt, he felt it settle against his chest. Turning away from the marketplace, he headed back in the direction of his room, a single name on his lips. 

“Lynesse.” 

**THE NEXT DAY . . .**

With Lynesse’s favor tucked in his bracer, Jorah mounted his horse and rode for the list. The day’s melee had been complete, and now it was time for the joust. Jorah had watched the melee, though not for long. It was a hot day, and he didn’t want to exhaust himself before his own match. Having never jousted in a tourney before, he found himself unsure of what to expect. Pain, he was sure, was to be endured. It was two men shoving large sticks at one another with all of their might, on top of a galloping horse . . . Pain was a given. Yet, of the actual sport, he only had a passing education. Now and then, he and a few other lads would mount up, dress in cheap armor, and then ride the lists. Those were common soldiers, however, these were knights. 

His first match was against Lord Jason Mallister. Of the man, he only knew that he enjoyed riding in tourneys. He was certainly a veteran. Lord Mallister had also the credit of killing Rodrik Greyjoy when defending his home of Seaguard against the Ironborn forces. This would not be an easy match by any stretch of the imagination. With Dacey attending to him as his squire, he made his way to the list. Dacey huffed and puffed beside him, carrying the heavy lance. 

There was a snide chuckling coming from a group of boys at about the same age of Dacey near the entrance to his side of the list. “Needs a woman to be his squire. What kind of Knight is this?” one of the boys sniggered. 

Dacey glared at them, then looked up at Jorah. True, few other Houses and villages in Westeros allowed their women to train as warriors, but it had always been this way on Bear Island. To not have women trained as warriors was odd to him. If his Aunt was anything to judge by, then the fairer sex was fully capable of it. It probably wasn’t very knightly of him . . . but he was a Mormont. Jorah nodded to Dacey. Grinning mischievously, she spun once and held his long lance out, knocking the group of boys right onto their feet with a hard _SMACK!_ Jorah couldn’t help but chuckle at their grunts of pain and bewildered looks. Nor could he help the proud smile at the satisfied look on Dacey’s face. 

Entering the list when he heard his name called, Jorah brought his horse to the end of the fence. Picking up his shield, he closed the visor of his helm, and then glanced through the audience. Blond hair . . . blond hair . . . There were many of them in the crowd, but none which hugged the visage of beauty he had met yesterday in the Market. There was a horn, signaling the start, and he looked down at Dacey who lifted up the heavy lance, her arms quivering underneath. Jorah grabbed it and lifted it up. The balance was odd, and so he corrected himself the best he could on his horse. 

Flags were placed in the middle of the fence, and the crowd became silent . . . Both his and Lord Mallister’s horse snorted and pawed at the ground, as if sensing the chaos about to ensue. Jorah concentrated on the silver eagle on Mallister’s shield. The best way to win, he knew, was to knock his opponent off of his horse. One heavy thrust. He could do that. He did that all the time. Smirking to himself underneath the helm, the flags waved, and he charged forward. The crowd went wild, but he was deaf to it . . . deaf to all save his pounding heart and storming hooves of his horse. 

His focus became narrowed, already limited by the visor of his helm. The weight of the lance was odd on his arm, since it was such a long weapon, but he managed to point it where he needed to. Focusing just on the corner of Mallister’s shield, he brought his arm back as the horses drew near, then shoved forward with all of his strength. His lance shattered against Mallister’s shield, and as he had hoped, the angle was odd enough that Mallister could not counter-balance and rolled off of his horse. He’d done it. In one bloody charge. 

Lifting his shattered lance up in the air, the crowd cheered louder. Mallister had been a favorite, so popular was he at tourneys. Jorah lifted the visor of his helm and trotted over to the man. “Well done, Ser,” Lord Jason grimaced up at him. “A good hit. A very good hit.” 

“Thank-you, Lord Mallister. You are unharmed, I hope?” Jorah inquired.

“Only a bruised ego,” Jason winced, his squire pulling him up onto his feet. “Which will heal with enough drink,” he winked and walked off the field. The armor was his, as was the horse that Lord Mallister rode. Dacey hurried forward along with a Mormont stable boy to bring the horse to their camp. Jorah rode back down the list, waving at the crowd who cheered as he went by. His gaze flitted past a familiar face, and he slowed just in time to finally make out the face of Lynesse Hightower. She was smiling quite proudly at him. Jorah inclined his head just a little towards her, his stomach performing the same flip-flop Lord Mallister had just completed. 

Back to his end he trotted, then removed his helm to take a drink water and rest his arm. He only had a few minutes before the next match. His gaze continued to search the audience, marking out the face of she who was giving his arm such strength. The horns blew again, and he replaced his helm, then picked up his lance once more. Checking the sigil of his next opponent, he saw the colors of House Royce. Lord Yohn Royce was introduced to the crowd, and the two men prepared for a joust. 

They went around thrice, both knocking into one another and awarding themselves points. On the third charge, Jorah managed to unseat Lord Royce, sending him to the ground. He was awarded another victory. So, two, was the face of two Freys—Ryman and Hosteen. They ate dirt, and Jorah rose in both favor and fame. He was exalted by the end of the last match, which ended the joust for the day. Battered and sore, he dismounted and gazed proudly over at the stands, but the focus of his attention had already left with her family. 

Later that night after tending to his bruises, one large scrape, and bathing, Jorah joined the celebrations taking place within the city. It seemed everyone was outside, admiring the sideshows. Men breathed fire, dancers entranced, bards sang popular tunes, acrobats and jesters thrilled the crowd all around. It was a festive mood, and Jorah felt the need to take part in it. It was different, walking in the city, from the other day. The people recognized him now and applauded at the sight of the woolen bear on his chest. He was not supposed to win, he knew this. He was a Minor Lord and newly minted Knight. The fact that he was doing so was entertaining to the people of Westeros. Well, he certainly didn’t mind reveling in their attention. Perhaps they’d even make a song of him if he won. Perhaps they’d sing it on the Wall.

Jorah searched the crowd for one. He had no guarantees that she was here, but he swore he felt her. Somewhere around here . . . Blond-to-blond, he went, searching for the Maid and only finding mortals in her place. Perhaps his search was obvious, for he heard her voice behind say in quite the coy tone, “is the Bear on a hunt?” Turning, he found her standing just behind him, a glass of wine in one hand. She wore an evening dress of deep blue lined with white, and it cut in a rather . . . bold . . . manner, revealing quite an extensive amount of cleavage. It suited her. Everything suited her. “And what is Ser Bear hunting tonight?” she pressed, taking another step to him. 

“Religion,” Jorah replied, a lump forming in his throat that he desperately tried to swallow down when she touched his arm. “I had hoped to find another blessing with the Maid.” Reaching into his doublet, he pulled out her handkerchief. “This one served me well today.”

Pleasure shown in her eyes. It seemed Lady Lynesse enjoyed being compared to a Goddess. Though there wasn’t any comparison really. She was the Maid. All paleness and gold and smooth features. A tiny, slender waist and delicate hands. So different from the women which populated Bear Island. So different from Elena. “You rode well today, Ser Jorah,” she told him, the teasing tilt giving way to genuine surprise. “Have you been in tourneys before?”

“No,” Jorah shook his head. “It is my first. Do you often attend tourneys, my lady?”

“Mm, yes, I’m afraid so. There is little for us Hightower maidens to do in Oldtown, so we follow the court. As of late, the court seems to enjoy going to this tourney and that. This festival and that festival. It can all become dull after awhile.” Lynesse looked him over. “But you, Ser Jorah, are making this tourney quite an interesting affair. I’ve inquired about you,” she told him, and then she moved once more, a slow circle around him. Jorah felt his heart start palpitate in his chest, keenly aware of being examined. “House Mormont is a vassal to House Stark. And Ser Jorah Mormont was one of two men knighted for his bravery during the Greyjoy Rebellion. You seem unfit for such a humble place,” she told him, slowly reaching his front once more. “You’re a shooting star, Ser Jorah . . . I do hope you do not burn out.”

“Order me, my lady, to remain aflame, and I shall do so unto the end of my days,” he told her, his voice grave. 

“A blessing from your Maid, you wished,” Lynesse considered him, then rolled up onto her tippy-toes, for she was a head shorter than him—and pressed her lips to his cheek. It wasn’t long enough to be scandalous, but it wasn’t short enough to be chaste either. Regardless, it had his heart stop in his chest and his blood spark into flame. “It is bestowed,” she declared as she sat back on her feet. “Remain afire, my Bear. I order you to win tomorrow.” 

There was such a promise in her eyes, that he could have fell to his knees right then and declared his love and desire for her alone. Everything about this woman was a tease. It drew him in, and he longed for nothing more than to know the taste of her lips and the sigh of her pleasure. Judging by the way she appraised him, he carried a slight hope that she felt the same. Lynesse smiled once more for him, and he carried it in his heart, until one of her friends scooped her away. He heard her friend ask, “is that Jorah Mormont? The rising star?” and he managed to see Lynesse smile further, and the two giggle, before they were entirely swallowed up by the crowd. 

Her kiss he carried with him through the rest of the night . . . and then into the list where he unhorsed Lord Whent, Ser Lyle Crakehall and Ser Boros Blount the next day. Now all that remained was the Kingslayer himself. Jaime Lannister. 

Of the man, Jorah had only some vague opinion. His lord, Eddard, disliked the man immensely. Jaime had, after all, stabbed the King through his back, a move both dishonorable and unknightly. His lord’s disgust had thus imprinted on him, as it had the rest of the Northmen under his command. Yet, of the man himself—and not his deeds—Jorah held no concrete opinion. He didn’t know the man, simply put. He did know, however, that he was a skilled warrior, both in battle and in tourneys. Ser Jaime was notorious for winning tourneys. One was oft the fool not to place one’s money on him. 

So, as he entered the list for the final time, he measured his opponent carefully. Jorah knew he was tired. He had spent the better part of the day shoving big sticks into men’s bodies. Jaime had played a match here and there as well, to arise to this final match now, but far less than Jorah had. He was less tired. Somehow, he needed to use Jaime’s extra energy against him. ‘Unhorse him quickly and be done with it,’ he thought to himself. 

The trumpets blared, and he lowered the visor on his helm. He glanced quickly into the crowd and found Lynesse sitting beside her father, looking grave. Did she fear for his safety? He felt the tight knot against his lance-arm of her handkerchief. He had the Maid on his side. He could do this. Taking his lance from Dacey, he lifted it, and then charged forward once the flags were waved. Ser Jaime came thundering down at him, his lance angled perfectly. Jorah sat just a little off on his saddle to make the blow glance him instead of hit him full-on. For his own attack, he angled the tip of his lance in the small square that often awarded an unhorsing. 

They came at one another, wood splintering everywhere. Their horses screeched at the chaos, and Jorah felt a hard blow all the same, despite his lean. He kept his horse though, and turned to find that Jaime had as well. A brief respite occurred while points were awarded, and new lances were brought. They came again. Jorah broke his lance once more against his opponent, though Jaime did not, but neither were unhorsed. Twelve rounds they ran. Jorah was becoming more exhausted by the round. Neither were able to unhorse the other, but Jorah was well aware that he was one point away from victory. 

Normally, the way to win a joust was unhorsing. It was quick and simple. In the event that both opponents were too well matched, points were kept. The first to break nine lances against their opponent, which resulted in three points each broken lance, won the match. Eight of Jorah’s lances now lay in ruin on the ground against Jaime’s seven. Taking up his next lance, he turned to Ser Jaime once more. His arm was sore, and his body battered, but he’d be damned if he was going to let this chance slip by. 

Time seemed to slow as the two knights charged once more. The crowd, who was going utterly mad at this close of a match, lessened to a dull roar in his ears. Jorah seemed only able to focus on the sound of his breaths, and of his horse’s hooves and snorts. Gripping his lance tightly, he angled it up, gritted his teeth hard together—so hard, he thought he might break them—and rammed his lance with all of his might into Ser Jaime’s shoulder. His lance splintered, and he felt a momentary victory, but then he felt Jaime’s immediate counter-attack. The force of the blow was crippling, and it pushed him to the side of his horse, nearly throwing him, but his legs gripped his horse, and he pulled himself back up before he could topple. 

That was it. He had won. Though Jaime had broken his lance as well, Jorah had been one ahead. The crowd was screaming and pounding the ground at the upset. Ser Jaime had been a favorite to win. He’d likely made a lot of gamblers unhappy. Riding back around, he met Ser Jaime half-way. The Lannister removed his helm and offered his hand. Jorah did the same, gripping his hand. “Well fought, Mormont,” Jaime said in some surprise, looking him over. “Didn’t think you’d have it in you.”

“Thank-you for the extended match, Ser Jaime. Allowed me a few moments longer of fame before I disappear with all the rest of the Minor Houses,” Jorah replied, all too aware of his fate. 

Ser Jaime’s eyes narrowed a little then. “I shall not forget you. I never do, you know, forget a face. Especially of one who’s beaten me. Probably because I can count the number on one hand,” he added with his trademark smirk. “Go, enjoy your victory. I’ll wallow a while before I’m scolded by my brother and dear sister.” 

Jorah nodded and released his hand. Turning to the stands, he rode in front of the stage where the Royal Family sat. King Robert was red-faced and bright-eyed. He’d obviously been drinking through the whole match. Beside him sat his Queen—Cersei of House Lannister. She looked pale and vaguely unimpressed that she was looking upon a victor that was not her brother. On the Queen’s knee was a small babe. Prince Joffrey. He was wailing something horrible. Cersei shushed him until he quieted. 

It was only when Robert rose before him that Jorah felt the weight of what he had just accomplished. He’d fucking won. Him! A newly made Knight from a poor House! Pride reared brightly in his heart, and he felt a faint stinging at his eyes and raw throb in his throat as Robert announced, “our victor of the Lannisport tourney! Ser Jorah of House Mormont!” The crowd’s accompanying roar only further increased the mist in his eyes, and he blinked it away quickly. Now was not the time to betray his Northern heritage. “And now our victor shall crown his Queen of Love and Beauty!” 

The King placed a crown upon his own head, signifying him as the victor. Honestly, it was a bit scratchy. Then he took the Queen’s. There was only one woman who deserved this. Who matched exactly those details. Beauty. And love. Turning his horse, he rode straight for her. Lynesse seemed to sit up straighter and straighter the closer he arrived. Her hands clasped to her chest when he stopped his horse in front of her. “My lady,” he bowed his head. “My victory is yours.” And he placed the crown upon her head, claiming her as his Queen of Love and Beauty. 

Those around them clapped appropriately, but Jorah’s attention was solely on her—his Queen. She stood and leaned over the stands to place a kiss to his cheek. That made the crowd holler louder. His heart was jumping in his chest, and the fierce look in her eyes was reflected with his own. The tourney officially over, tired men and women left the stands. There was to be one last festival that night, and Jorah intended on making the most of it. 

After his newly won chargers, armor sets and gold had been collected, Jorah dressed in his usual wool and left his room . . . only to be stopped by two dainty hands pushing him back in. As soon as the door was closed, he felt sweet lips against his own. Blond hair fell about him, and he knew this mouth. He knew this shape. Lynesse. His eyes closed, and he kissed her back, returning her hunger in equal fervor. His hand lifted to bury in her sea of gold, angling her up against him. This was, by far, a better reward for his victory than the kiss on his cheek she had bestowed upon him earlier. 

They kissed until they were out of breath, and then satisfied themselves with nuzzles to one another’s cheeks and soft kisses to their necks. Jorah was currently nuzzling under her jaw, when she gripped him to her tighter. “Come,” she whispered breathlessly into his ear, “I wish to celebrate this night with you under the stars, for all to see. My bear, the victor.” Lynesse was smiling broadly, her eyes so light, as she pulled back and took him by the hands. 

No thought was given to how this might arise in a scandal, Lady Lynesse marching into his room and closing the door behind her. Only warm thoughts and warm caresses mattered here. With her on his arm, Jorah proudly joined the rabble in the festival. Music played more lively than ever. Drink was flowing in the torrents. Especially for Jorah. Everyone he met seemed to want to drink with him. Over and over, his mug was filled, or he was a given a new one, and he swallowed its contents down whilst toasting his House, the King’s health, the bloody ale itself, for all he cared. 

In just an hour, Jorah found himself well and truly sloshed. Lynesse was quite drunk herself, giggling and giving him teasing looks and caresses as she paraded him around. “This is my bear. Look, I’ve caught him!” she kept saying those they met. Her friends found it especially funny, and they spent a few minutes laughing over how Lynesse had caught the Great Bear of the Tourney. At some point, and it was all beginning to become a blur at this point, he and Lynesse had found themselves dancing. 

Jorah didn’t know all of the steps, as this was more of a Southron dance than a Northener, but he gave it his best. And whenever he did fumble, Lynesse was giggling and setting him right with a kiss, and that really wasn’t such a terrible thing. The minstrels started to play, _The Bear and the Maiden Fair,_ and Lynesse gasped when she heard the song. “My bear!” she cried, grabbing his face drunkenly. “It is our song! Listen!”

 _‘Oh, sweet she was, and pure and fair!_  
_The maid with honey in her hair!_  
_Her hair! Her hair!_  
_The maid with honey in her hair!_  
_The bear smelled the scent on the summer air._  
_The bear! The bear!_  
_All black and brown and covered with hair!_  
_He smelled the scent on the summer air!_  
_He sniffed and roared and smelled it there!_  
_Honey on the summer air!_  
_Oh, I'm a maid, and I'm pure and fair!_  
_I'll never dance with a hairy bear!_  
_A bear! A bear!_  
_I'll never dance with a hairy bear!_  
_The bear, the bear!_  
_Lifted her high into the air!_  
_The bear! The bear!_  
_I called for a knight, but you're a bear!_  
_A bear, a bear!_  
_All black and brown and covered with hair_  
_She kicked and wailed, the maid so fair,_  
_But he licked the honey from her hair._  
_Her hair! Her hair!_  
_He licked the honey from her hair!_  
_Then she sighed and squealed and kicked the air!_  
_My bear! She sang. My bear so fair!_  
_And off they went, from here to there,_  
_The bear, the bear, and the maiden fair!’_

Lynesse laughed throughout the song, pulling him to dance once more. Jorah felt lighter than air in her presence and under her attention. She was making him a lusty fool, too, with her kisses and caresses. This reached a head when, at the end of the song, she pressed herself against him and whispered in his ear, “does my bear enjoy honey?” Jorah mumbled something, he was sure, though his mind was currently full of heat and inebriation. “Ask my father for my hand, and I will produce such sweet honey for my strong bear.” 

The words were slurred, but the intent in her gaze was steady. Jorah immediately leaned forward and kissed her. Marriage. She suggested marriage! Joy and apprehension mingled in his belly. But the boldness of drunkenness spurred him on. “Take me to him!” he commanded, and Lynesse squealed and pulled him through the crowd. Lord Leyton Hightower and his companions were sequestered in a section a tad quieter. He was enjoying wine when Jorah approached him. Lynesse dropped back, clasping her hands together and trying to hide her grin. 

“My lord,” Jorah bowed formally. Hightower was a far richer House than his own. They also boasted the Citadel, where Maesters learned their craft. 

“Ah, the victor of the tourney!” Leyton smiled at him. “Congratulations on your win, Ser. And allow me to express my gratitude for honoring our House with your crowning our Lynesse as your Queen of Love and Beauty.”

“My lord honors me,” Jorah replied, trying to keep the slur from his voice . . . and to stand without swaying. “My lord, if my victory has proven anything, it is that I am more than just a Lord from a Minor House. I beseech you. I am in love with your daughter. May I have her hand in marriage?” 

Surprise flittered across Leyton’s face at this. He studied Jorah, and he felt a momentary panic that he might judge his desires solely based on drink and not devotion. Then Leyton looked at his daughter over Jorah’s shoulder. “Does he speak truth? Do you wish to marry him, Lynesse?” 

“I do, father,” Lynesse came forward, thankfully trying to keep her inebriated state downplayed as well. “I love him.”

Jorah didn’t dare look at her. He’d likely kiss her if he did, and that would not aid his current cause. Leyton studied them, and Jorah looked behind the lord. It was not just his companions here, but the rest of the Hightower clan. Daughters. So many daughters. Some of them had husbands as well. He hoped Lynesse would give him so many children. Elena had been too sickly, but Lynesse was full of life and passion. They’d have golden-haired cubs. A whole slew of them. Jorah prayed to every God he knew. 

Finally, Leyton nodded. “Very well. I consent to the marriage. We shall speak of ceremony arrangements in the morn.”

And with an explosion of joy and overwhelming tenderness, Jorah Mormont became betrothed to Lynesee Hightower. For many years after, his joy would never reach such heights as it did that night again.


	11. Words of Love and Warning

The bells still rang in the Sept to announce the new marriage that had just been blessed inside its walls. Those weren’t his Gods, not really, but they had been Lynesse’s, and so they’d said their vows under the eyes of the Seven. She now wore his Cloak . . . well . . . she had been wearing his Cloak. Jorah took another sip of his wine, the rich flavor going straight to his head. Lynesse stood before him, biting her lip and giving him such a coy gaze. It heated his blood hotter than the blazing sun outside. The floor swayed underneath them. They were aboard a pleasure barge . . . their honeymoon vessel to take them to Bear Island—Lynesse’s new home. 

“Have you come to devour me, Bear?” she cooed, her laces half-way done on her dress. 

Jorah felt a thrill of excitement in his belly. He set his glass of wine down next to the private feast they had—mostly—indulged in and stepped towards his lady wife. Without answering, he simply grabbed her around the waist and picked her right up. She squealed in delight, her head throwing back in peals of laughter as he spun her around before setting her on the bed. Her smile warmed him, but when she took that lower lip and bit it seductively, the warmth turned to a burning fire in his blood. In truth, it was a wonder they had managed to wait after the wedding. Lynesse had been abundant in her affections and generous in how deep those affections had ran. 

Now though . . . no more waiting. He’d have her. His lips pressed to hers eagerly, and he purred low in his chest as she accepted them just as eagerly. Her hands gripped at the front of his shirt, pulling him atop her. Settling comfortably between her legs, he felt her give a sigh and took that opportunity to slip his tongue past her lips and into the cavern of her mouth. Lynesse shivered underneath him, a moan rising up her throat. It vibrated against his lips, causing his own pleasant shiver to occur. The two joined tongues, kissing most intimately as their hands feverishly touched all that they now owned. For himself, he was engrossed in her breasts and her hips. Each pass of his palm over the cloth that separated him from her breast had Lynesse arching up underneath him, rubbing something sensual against him. 

Lynesse was eagerly running her hands down his back, her nails pressing in just enough to cause goosebumps on his skin. This simple shared intimacy spanned for quite some time. Kissing was oft so looked over between couples. They were too eager to just join and race for their release. Kissing was a pleasure all in itself. Jorah lifted his head after their extended snog and was delighted to find her cheeks a rosy pink, her lips swollen, and such a bright light of lust in her eyes, he thought he might melt under the heat of her gaze alone. His mind felt hazy and sluggish with the weight of his arousal. 

His rough fingers went for the laces of her dress that still remained done up. With a hurried tug, he had them loosen enough, so he could rip it straight from her body. She gasped at that, a look of shock and amusement on her face. “I liked that dress!” she exclaimed, swatting his chest. “You beast!” 

“I’ll buy you ten others,” he promised her, tugging the last strips of the dress away. Smallclothes were removed, and she lay bare before him. Lynesse bit her lip, having the grace to look a little shy. Jorah had never seen such a magnificent sight. She was curved perfectly. Every mound came to a perfect valley, the shadows cast across her skin only seemed to somehow make her look more sultry. “My love,” he breathed, awe in his voice, “I am not worthy to worship at this alter.”

Lynesse hummed at that, her hand stroking through his hair. “Anyone can gaze at an alter,” she told him. “Prove yourself worthy by doing more than just staring.” 

Little encouragement was needed from there. Jorah began at her throat. Soft kisses trailed down her windpipe, across her collarbone. She seemed to relish each doting kiss, her eyes closed with a pleasant smile on her lips. His tour of her body brought him to one of those beautiful mounds, where the cutest pink nipple lay at the very tip. Eagerly, he licked over this little nub, and she gasped, giving a hard shudder. Her hand came to wrap around his shoulders, her legs instinctively widening around him. Indeed, it seemed the more Jorah played with her nipple—tracing, sucking, licking just over the very tip—the more she reacted. Before long, she was a moaning mess under him, arching under him and pushing her hips up against his waist, trying to grind against something. 

“I have found your weakness, my lady,” he purred low, his eyes amused. Lynesse gave an impatient huff in response. A low chuckle left his lips, and he kissed down her firm tummy, feeling her shudder and gasp. Her legs were spreading wide, her thighs trembling with the weight of her arousal. Jorah pressed his mouth into her inner thigh, tracing his tongue over the sheen of liquid that had leaked there. Lynesse cooed, her hands hovering over his head uncertainly. 

“Jorah?” she breathed weakly, a tone of uncertainty in her voice. 

He did not answer. His mouth was too busy pressing into her most intimate lips. Darling blond hair had been carefully shaped to attract him to her further, but it was obvious Lynesse had not expected close inspection or attention to this part of her. She tensed under his kisses, her hands finally gripping his hair. Jorah toyed with her, giving her just a little further teasing, before he finally pressed his tongue past those lips and inside of her cunt. Lynesse squealed, her legs gripping his head, even as she pushed away from him, her body not knowing how to react. 

Jorah held her fast, clasping his mouth to her and pressing his tongue deep. Curling his tongue inside of her, he flicked and thrust and swirled. Lynesse was wiggling and squirming like a mad woman underneath him. Her fingers were tangled in his hair, pulling now and then. The sounds ripped from her throat were almost inhuman in their tone and pitch. She soaked his tongue after a few licks, obviously enjoying his mindful attentions to her. “Oh, Jorah! Oh, Jorah!” she kept crying, almost weeping. Jorah was elated with her response to him. A satisfaction welled deep in his chest. There was no confidence quite like the one a man received when he knew he pleased his lady. 

His tongue curled once more inside of her, and he touched the area just under the soft bundle that covered her clit. Lynesse released a sharp breath, her hips bucking down against him. Her hands pressed him hard to her, not allowing him to remove himself now. A throaty hum left his lips, giving her a little vibration, and she cried out anew, her hips grinding down against him. Jorah followed her body’s need and licked the spot faster, firmer, until her hips were shaking and thighs trembling on either side of him. Her orgasm came suddenly and expectedly, if her breathing was anything to go by. 

Lynesse gave a hard shudder, and Jorah tasted an increase of her honey. Her thighs shook hard, and her body arched until she finally collapsed back, her hands releasing his hair. Jorah licked her clean, humming all the while in satisfaction, before pressing a tender kiss to her swollen clit, which was weeping for attention. Licking his lips, he wiped his chin as well and pushed up to look down upon his wife. Her body was a lovely rosy color, flushed with her orgasm. Her eyes were fluttering, and she looked genuinely shocked at what had just happened. 

Moving over her, Jorah pressed tender kisses into her neck and against her jaw. She gasped lightly and started to revive herself, her arms circling around him. “My bear,” she breathed at long last. “You must take me. Now. Forever.”

Since his own arousal was rather becoming a bother, he quickly moved to satisfy her new desires. Jorah pulled at his tunic, throwing it to the ground. Lynesse ran her gaze brazenly over him. Her fingers curiously traced scars over his body. She seemed to delight in his warrior’s body. Jorah was quick at work at the laces of his breeches as she trailed her finger over his form. The light tease alone was enough to make him near mad with desire. He had wanted her the moment he had laid eyes on her. With an impatient growl, he tugged his breeches down and managed to free himself, his cock hard and pulsing for her. 

Her hands flew from him at the sight and came to her lips in a surprised gasp. “You are fit to injure me, Ser,” she murmured apprehensively. 

“Never, my love,” Jorah swore, lowering his head to kiss her deeply. He laid against her, nestled between her legs and simply filled his senses with the taste of her tongue and lips once again. Their mouths moved in a slow-burning desperate dance. Tongues and teeth came to play. Nibbles and suckles. Only until their lips were newly swollen did Jorah break away and resume his attentions to where they were most needed. She was slick once again, aided by his attentions earlier. 

His fingers took this slick honey and spread it over his aching length. Already, the veins were stretched across the skin. His desire was near to pain. Once he believed himself slicked up enough, he leaned forward and pressed his tip against her. Lynesse stared at him levelly, her hands reaching for his. Jorah held them fast, and then slowly pushed inside of her. She gasped and jerked, but then held herself still. Her warm walls suckled him in with surprising ease. There was no great struggle here, yet she was wonderfully tight. Jorah released a low groan as he pressed his full length inside of her. 

They held together for a moment, locked and desperately trying to remember how to breathe. Jorah lifted his gaze to Lynesse’s, searching her face. Her brow was furrowed in discomfort, but after she breathed a moment or two, she began to relax, and then gave him a nod. Jorah braced himself on the bed, a hand on either side of her, and he pulled back, the delicious friction of her cunt sending a shiver down his spine. His hips pushed back in, and the explosion of pleasure that racked his body stole his very breath. With it, a moan was pushed from his chest, and he clutched the sheets of the bed, working them in a steady rhythm together.

Lynesse gave a few whimpers at first, her hands moving to clutch his shoulders. He felt her nails dig in for purchase. However, after a few more strokes, she began to relax fully, and the nails were retracted and replaced with splayed fingers that were pulling at him closer. Jorah shared in her excited breaths as he thrust a little faster, the hot, wet pleasure he found within her coursing through his very veins. His mind could only call for more! More! More! Lynesse’s seemed to be echoing this statement, for she spread her legs wide, her hands sliding down to his back to his arse, pulling at him in further. 

Pressed chest-to-chest, Jorah worried less for her discomfort, since they were well past then, and instead of giving them what they needed. His hips moved harder, slamming his cock into her soaked hole, which was clinging greedily to him with every thrust. Cries escaped her lips, her eyes rolling back in her head as he sped up. Jorah echoed them with his own low grunts. Their union was holy. Not because it was blessed by the Gods in the Sept, but because here, between her legs, he had found heaven. As she clutched at him tightly to her, he worked faster, faster, his hips adamant and slapping against hers. 

“Jorah!” she cried into his ear, her teeth soon latching upon it. An intense jolt of arousal shot through him, and he sped up further, taking her faster, deeper. The bed creaked in its frame, and if the ship had been still, Jorah was sure they’d have set it rocking with their passionate movements. “Oh-oh-oh!” she cried harshly, her body squirming underneath him. Her hips started to buck wildly, and her arms tightened, the nails returning to his flesh. Jorah groaned loudly when he felt her starting to pulse around him, his cock driving into her relentlessly. 

“OH! MY-MY LOVE!” she managed to call before the force of her climax rendered her speechless. Jorah cried out for her, his low timbre practically making the walls shake as she squeezed and pulsed and undulated around him. Her hips were moving frantically, and he moved to overtake her, fucking her right through her orgasm. Jorah was panting furiously, his body hot and slick, but the pleasure was so intense and building right in his core. She lay, boneless, underneath him, her eyes glossy and unseeing as he sought his own release. 

Lifting himself back up, he grabbed her hips and kept her steady as he drilled into her, the sounds of their flesh a sharp staccato. His body began to tighten as each explosive release of pleasure built up within him, reaching an earth-shattering end. “AH! LYNESSE!” he managed to gasp, his muscles clenching, and then he was bursting from all the pleasure swirling in his body and head. Crying out, he groaned low afterwards as his seed spilled deep into her body, adding further liquid to the sheets. His orgasm left him temporarily deaf, his head ringing, and he stilled inside of her once it released him from its overwhelming grasp. 

The two lovers stared at each other in shocked wonderment . . . that they had found another person who so thoroughly complimented and satisfied them. Lynesse reached up and touched his cheek, her fingers lightly stroking the scruffy hair. She pulled him to her and gave him a kiss that practically made his toes curl. Jorah moaned into her lips, his heart full of love . . . of contentment. This was the woman he had been made for. And he had found her. He had obtained her. She filled his heart completely. 

Their bodies cooled, but their ardor certainly did not. As soon as their lips parted, Lynesse fixed him with a heated gaze. “Again,” she demanded, her hips rising to already buck herself against him. Jorah released a sharp moan, his blood immediately enflamed. Who was this woman? Why had he lived so long without knowing of her existence? “Again!” she said again, her hips moving more insistently against him. Jorah grinned and returned them to a rhythm of passion and lust . . . and such did they remain locked through the rest of their journey to the Bay of Ice . . . where heat soon cooled. 

**ONE YEAR LATER . . .**

The muck made his boots want to stick to the ground, but Jorah forced them out and came at his fencing partner again. “A little faster there, Dacey,” he told her, easily dodging her mace. 

“Any faster, and I’ll take that pretty head of yours off,” she replied with a grunt, blocking his attack and countering with a swifter jab at his shoulder. “Then what use would your wife have with you?” 

Jorah chuckled, taking a step back to readjust his grip on his sword. “Let’s say it’s not my face Lynesse married me for,” he teased back, his eyes glinting happily. The heir of Bear Island had never smiled so much in his life. He was a happily married man with a beautiful wife. The two were going to have beautiful children, and none of them would ever know unhappiness. 

Dacey grunted, making sure to hit him with the blunt part of her mace for that. Jorah chuckled and darted to the side, getting back at her with a quick tap at her back. “You’ll understand one day, cousin, how love can bring strength to your hand and speed to your feet.” 

“Oh Gods,” Dacey bemoaned. “Stop him now. My cousin speaks of love. Love, my sweet cousin, is the bane of men. They destroy themselves for it . . . and each other for it . . . all in the name of love. It makes them blind in one eye.” Dacey paused in their fight, considering him. “You are blind to her, too. She doesn’t like it here.” She hesitated, then asked, “why her, cousin? Of all the women in the world . . . why her?”

Jorah swung his sword in a circle, keeping his wrist agile during their pause at melee. “Her smile,” he replied. “I was not alive until I saw her smile.” This caused another groan from Dacey, and Jorah’s mood could not be soured. Not even by her. Dacey had always been his favorite cousin, even now, older and harder as she had become under the careful tutelage of her mother. “Alright, my wise cousin, tell me. What is the bane of women? Not love?”

“Hm,” Dacey gave a short laugh. “Not at all. Women use love as a tool. We’re smarter than men, you see,” she said haughtily. “We can turn it on and off as quick as a candle is lit or smothered. No, the bane of women . . . is the folly of foolish men. Men, for example, who are in love,” she told him pointedly. “Guard your heart, cousin.” She crouched back into a fighting stance, and Jorah did the same. “You’re weak there.”

The two clashed together again, and Jorah noticed her foot sunk too deep to the left and quickly darted right. She couldn’t move fast enough and left her right side exposed. Jorah brought his sword to her belly and tapped it. “Guard your belly, cousin, or someone will bury an ax in it,” he instructed, before lowering his weapon and gripping her shoulder tightly. “Thank-you for the lesson. We’ll spar again later on in the week.” Dacey shouldered her weapon and nodded at him, giving him a serious nod before walking off. Jorah watched after her. Dacey Mormont. She’d be as fierce as her mother one day. Jorah didn’t doubt it. 

She wasn’t entirely wrong either. Though he and Lynesse had experienced perhaps one of the most intense and incredible honeymoon Jorah could have ever dreamed of, he still couldn’t get her expression out of his head when she had first beheld his home. She had taken one look at the statue of the woman with a babe in one arm and an ax in another and the smile had frozen on her lips. It seemed the more he had shown her of the humble, wooden Hall, the more the light had died from her eyes. 

He’d pressed her, of course, wanting to know what he could do to make it feel more like home to her. After all, she had come from Oldtown. A city thick with stone buildings and a marvelous castle, and the marvel of the Citadel. Bear Island was quite the opposite. Instead of stone, they had wood. Instead of buildings, they had trees and rocks and waterfalls. Instead of the bustle of traffic, they had the whisper of wind and roar of water. She had told him it was a lovely place, and she was sure she could be quite happy here. 

Well, he was quite certain she’d be happy today. He had purchased a new necklace for her. It would match the silk dress he had procured last month. Jorah was sure she’d love it, and he’d see that heart-warming smile on her lips once again. Leaving the training yard, he entered through the back door to Mormont Hall and made his way to his study. His muddy boots were left for a servant to clean, and he removed the thick wool of his training garb for a softer tunic. On his desk rested the small box which held his love’s new gift. He was half-way through tying his tunic when the door to his study opened and Aunt Maege walked in. 

“Good, you’re here,” she said. “We need to talk about the King’s taxes. The collector will be here afore long, and we need to ensure we have enough.” 

Jorah groaned. He hated this part of being Lord. Bear Island was a poor house. Not overly poor, but they weren’t wealthy by any means. They produced and exported enough to get by comfortably, if not leisurely. “Have you done the counting?” he asked her, moving to his desk to find the papers which held their accounts. 

“I have,” Maege said, her expression hard and accusing. “We’ve enough, but not enough to pay our workers. There was a significant withdraw recently.” Her eyes fell upon the box. “And I see it now in the shape of finely carved box.” 

Jorah bristled. “Fret not, Aunt. I calculated before I purchased. With the next haul, the workers will be able to receive their pay. It will simply come a week late. Surely they can go a week without pay. They catch their own food,” he grunted. 

“Go a week without an income, and then you can tell me how you found the experience,” Maege told him shortly. 

He turned and stared at her hard for a moment. Jorah slowly wavered under that crushing gaze, and he relented. “Alright. I see your point. It won’t happen again,” he murmured, his head lowering. Trust his Aunt to scold him well. She had always been particularly good at putting men in their places. 

“See that it doesn’t,” she said firmly. “Your wife could use less baubles and more discipline, in my opinion,” she huffed. “I offered to give her a bit of training, seems only right for the Lady of Bear Island to at least know how to hold a sword or ax, but she wasn’t interested. Said it wasn’t a lady’s place.” Maege gave a laugh at that. “She’ll soon find out a lady’s place is on her hands and knees for a pirate intent on the raping with that sort of sense in her brain.” 

“Mind your tongue,” Jorah said tersely, “that’s my wife. She isn’t a lady of Bear Island. She’s a proper lady.” 

“Aye,” Maege agreed. “A proper lady of silk and cream. She isn’t fit for this life, Jorah. She’ll never be a bear. Mind you don’t bring us all down in trying to turn her into one.” Jorah glared. Maege was being unfair. Lynesse had done much to adapt to her new life. It was unfair of his Aunt to expect her to just accept the Mormont way of life after living as long as she had in a lifestyle almost entirely different. She needed time and gentle coaxing. 

‘Is that all?” Jorah asked, his tone clearly warning her that if she answered anything but the affirmative, he would not be held responsible for the words that came from him next. 

“Aye.”

“Good. Despite your opinion of her, you’d do well to remember that she is your Lady.” He waited, letting that settle over his Aunt for a moment. “I’ll come to you later to finalize the accounts,” he said. Recognizing that she was dismissed, and wisely obeying it, Maege nodded her head and left his study. Once the door was closed, Jorah irritably punched the top of his desk—the oak wood thudding. A lingering feeling of guilt welled in his stomach as he looked at the box. Reaching for it, he opened it up and examined the sapphire-laden necklace within. It sparkled beautifully against the silver chain of the necklace. Each sapphire—five total—had been cherishingly placed within the necklace. It was expert workmanship. A true gift for any great lady. And he’d cost his people a week’s worth of wages for it. 

Sighing, he closed the box and took it in his hand. Jorah left his study and headed for his chambers. Lynesse oft buried herself in there—sewing, writing, reading—as if it was the only place that felt like hers. Opening the door, sure enough, there she was, working on one of her dresses. “Hello, husband,” she greeted with a sigh. “Is training over already?” 

“Mm. My Aunt told me she attempted to draw you out for training yourself,” Jorah said, closing the door behind him and entering their room further. It had once been a scarce room with naught but a bed, wardrobe and desk. There had been a fur on the floor and against the wall. Now those furs had been replaced with expensive rugs. The bed was adorned with a silk canopy and sheets. Lynesse’s dresses and jewelry were overflowing, not having enough containers to keep them all. This room was set entirely apart from the others. It was out of place from the simple, scant interior of the rest of the Hall. 

“She did,” Lynesse gave a single nod. “But then she took one look at my hands and deemed them unfit to grip an ax, let alone a sword. Not that I minded. The only weapon I shall wield is my needle . . . and the most potent one of all . . . that which rests between my legs,” she said with a small smirk. “I don’t require an ax to slay a bear.” 

Good. Her mood wasn’t entirely in shambles. Jorah, smirking at her words, came up behind her and pressed a kiss to the back of her neck. “My sweet love. For enduring such a coarse interaction with my Aunt,” he presented the box to her. Her eyes lit up immediately, and she snatched the box with a squeal. Jorah chuckled and sat back on the bed, watching her drop her needle and thread in her eagerness to see what was inside. 

Rising from her sewing chair, she opened it . . . and brought her hand to her chest. “Oh, Jorah,” she breathed, her eyes misty. “My sweet bear. My doting husband.” She took the necklace from within the box and held it up to her neck, immediately running to the mirror to inspect herself. “This is the most beautiful necklace I have ever seen,” she declared. Jorah felt his heart warm at her joy. He had pleased her so. Yes, the week without pay was worth this. Everything was worth it to see that treasured smile on her lips. 

“You like it?” he questioned, and she spun around, running right for him. Jorah gasped, and then released a loud, rich laugh as she tackled him onto the bed. 

“I LOVE it,” she corrected him, covering his face in kisses. “Oh, wait until my sisters see me in this. They’ll die with jealousy,” she purred pleasantly, and then proceeded to put it on. Her tackle had landed her right on his lap, and once the necklace was securely in place, she shoved his back down to meet the bed. Lynesse’s legs tightened around his waist, and she smirked coyly down at him. Jorah felt his blood start to rise, his heart pumping rapidly in his chest. Her hips moved slowly, grinding against him in little strokes. Jorah breathed out softly, his hands moving to grip her waist, fingers burying in the fabric of her dress. 

“You shall have to tell me how it looks, my love,” Lynesse whispered, and she lowered her head, kissing him. Jorah lifted his hands to her back, fingers splayed against her back. He was pulling her up against him, but Lynesse pulled away with a little bite to his lower lip. That had certainly sparked his hunger. Giggling, she pulled up and off of him, then disappeared behind the divider where she dressed. Jorah groaned and continued laying. 

“You are enough to tease a Septon to Sin,” he informed her. His hands were already going for his breeches, intending fully to stroke one out, since his wife was too occupied in trying out her new accessory with her clothes. 

“Ah, ah,” he heard from the divider. Jorah looked up, and his lips parted. There his wife stood—entirely naked—save for the sapphire necklace around her neck. It stopped right between her breasts, leading the eye inevitably to those beautiful, pink nipples. His cock throbbed in his breeches, but he was rendered immobile by the lusty, playful look Lynesse fixed him with now. Her fingers trailed down her body, playing with her nipples as she slowly walked up to him. “What do you think, husband?” she purred, turning around slowly for him. Jorah gratefully admired her arse before her front came back into view. “Does it compliment my tone?”

“You wear it properly, my lady,” Jorah replied. “A dress would never be able to do it the same justice as your skin does now.” She gave a throaty giggle and made her way to him. Jorah felt his arousal double with every step she took. His mind was clouded with his lust. He needed her. 

She jumped onto the bed, standing over him. Jorah could see a delicious glistening at her thighs, and his cock jumped in his breeches. “Then I am only to wear it naked?” she said, moving her hips in a swivel motion above him. Jorah gave her an entreating look, his hands sliding up her ankles and calves. “Sounds as though it might lead to potential violence. My husband is very much a bear, you see,” she said, her hand trailing along the glittery necklace, fingers tracing each sapphire lovingly. That hand continued down to her tummy . . . then rubbed over herself, spreading her honey over the lips of her quim. “And he’d destroy any man who even dared to look at such a sight.”

Jorah was suffering. He was burning in his clothes, and his cock had become so hard, it was causing physical pain in his breeches, which were stretched to their maximum. “Lynesse,” he breathed desperately, his eyes wild. 

She gave him a triumphant look and then sat right down on his lap. Grinding herself into him, he felt the heat of her right through his breeches and groaned loudly. “I have a bear to tame, it seems,” she bit her lip, and then quickly grabbed his tunic, pushing it up over his head. Jorah sat up, trying to help her. As soon as it was off, she was shoving him back onto the bed and making quick work of his breeches. Before Jorah could even lean up to properly remove them, she had grabbed his cock and sheathed herself on it. “OH!” she shouted at the same time he swore aloud. 

Drenched, she was. A delicious hot, wet trembling glove around him. His breeches had made it to his knees and that was about it. Lynesse seemed not to care, for she was grinding herself in his lap, moving her hips from side-to-side and swiveling. He was panting harder, his brain fit to burst with his desire. His hands grabbed at her thighs, fingers digging in insistently. His wife ground just a little more before pulling up and thrusting herself down upon him. She cried out again, her head throwing back. Jorah grunted, his hands digging further into her thighs, leaving bruises behind, he was sure. 

She had teased him enough, he’d direct now. He used his strength to pull her up and down on his cock, his hips moving to meet her and drive himself just that much deeper inside of her. Lynesse shouted out her pleasure, her beautiful body arching towards him, her head thrown back, hair touching the top of her arse. Jorah ran his hand over this arch, his palm engulfing a breast. Lynesse trembled against him, her hips moving down faster as he teased a nipple. “Jorah!” she released in a sharp breath, her hand gripping his wrist. Jorah smirked and tugged the nipple, giving her a hard pinch. “Ah! YES!” she gave a guttural cry and dropped both of her hands to his chest, using him as leverage as she rode down severely against him.

The sound of their slapping flesh echoed in their chambers. Jorah felt each stroke drive him further up the wall in this heady mix of pleasure and sharp lust. The necklace was bouncing against her skin with every thrust, and he felt a beastly need to tear it off of her. But that would be a ruin of silver, and he dared not give into this animalistic urge. Instead, he merely tried to outdo and thrust faster underneath her. Lynesse’s mouth dropped open in a silent scream as he fucked her somewhere rather special. It was tight and nearly overwhelming for himself as well. 

“OHHH YES! RIGHT THERE!” she shouted, scratching at his chest. Jorah hissed at the pain, but it served him to drive harder into that tight area over and over, the pain mixing headily with the pleasure. Their bed rocked, the four poster beams shuddering with their furious movements. Jorah was building far too quickly. Their passion had always consumed him entirely. 

“Lynesse!” he gasped hoarsely, the pulsing in his body all beginning to center on one point. She was nearing her end as well. Her cries became low-pitched, and she was grinding more than thrusting. “Ahhhh,” he shuddered as she suddenly squeezed tightly around his cock, hugging and throbbing around him. She released a sharp cry as her body strained. Jorah could feel her thighs trembling and shaking on either side of him. The power of her orgasm sent him right into his own, the undulations too intense for him to survive. 

“LYN!” he shouted, his hips rising up a little as he clutched her against him, emptying his seed into her. His orgasm rode through him in powerful waves, leaving his skin tingling, and his head aching. “Oh gods,” he breathed as he floated down, resting against the bed. Lynesse lay across his torso, and he could feel her hot breath against his chest, tickling the hair there. The cold from her necklace was making him shiver as well, pressed against his skin as it was. 

Lynesse slowly rose, pushing back up on him. They met each other’s gaze, and she lowered her head to kiss him. Jorah returned it with every ounce of love he had in him. His affection and adoration of this woman knew no bounds. Her lips slowly left his, giving his ear a quick lick and suck. Jorah shivered hard at that. She’d discovered that weakness the third day of their marriage and delighted using it against him. “Come, my bear,” she said, crawling over him towards the head of the bed. “It is mating season.” 

Jorah lifted an eyebrow and turned on his stomach, looking up at her. She was grinning back at him, on her hands and knees and swaying her arse seductively at him. Jorah chuckled and felt new heat prickle against his skin, and he rushed forward to attack her instantly. Yes. That necklace was worth far more than a few weeks’ worth of pay. Her smile . . . that look in her eyes . . . it was worth the whole damned island.


	12. The Decision

**TWO YEARS LATER . . .**

'The treasury is empty.' The treasury was empty. The words echoed in his skull as he looked down at Bear Island's account books. Worse than empty . . . they owed. Cold sweat clung to his skin as a desperation took hold. What could he do to amend this? To put money back into the island? Jorah rubbed his face wearily, before slipping them through his thinning hair for the hundredth time that day. Coupled with this hundredth was another hundredth heavy sigh. He'd doomed his family. His people. He had no way to pay them. How would they feed their own families? Buy clothes for their children?

"Fucking fool," he swore to himself in an undertone, shoving the account book away from him violently. It skittered off of his desk and onto the floor with a loud clunk. Jorah sat back in his chair, face buried in his hands. This hadn't been a sudden change either. Little by little, he had drained their coffers of profit. Lynesse's depression had worsened as the years went on. She smiled less and less . . . the warmth between them was beginning to fade. In his desperation, he had sought prettier jewels and finer silks. They had appeased, but they had not fixed.

When they weren't fighting about Lynesse trying to adapt to Bear Island, they were arguing about children. They'd coupled a lot. That they did not have a child on the way yet seemed suspicious to Jorah. He believed that if Lynesse had a child, she might feel more at home. More than that, he knew he had a duty to Bear Island to provide an heir. More, even, than that . . . he wanted to have a child with Lynesse. The boy or girl—whatever shape the cub ended up taking—it would have its mother's beauty. They'd be the flower of Bear Island.

But there was no child. There wasn't even a hint of conception. Jorah suspected that Lynesse was taking Moon Tea, but when he confronted her on the subject, she became irritated and angry. Those were the worst fights. Jorah did not share her chambers after those arguments. Suffice it to say, he was . . . miserable . . . but he loved her. He loved her more than anything. Which was why he needed to find a way to fix this problem. Jorah rose and left his study. He couldn't stand to be cramped in that room any longer.

His feet eventually brought him outside of the Hall. The roar of waterfalls echoed in his ears, but they did not lure him to their calming presence today. Instead, he walked down the path that led to the nearest fishing village below the Hall. If all he could do was lend more of his strength to hurry work along, then so be it. He'd throw himself into the muck alongside the peasants to increase their profits. "My lord." "M'lord." "Lord." He was greeted by those he passed, and he gave them each a nod.

The village was alive with activity. Barefooted children ran to and fro, playing games. Jorah recalled a time where he had been one of those children. Feet covered in mud and scrapes, cheeks flush with the cold or exhilaration. Jorah did not oft long for those days. He preferred the strength he had now. However, with the misery attacking his heart, he found himself wishing he could be among those tattered children playing along the coast instead of facing the worries he had wrought with his foolishness.

Joining the men at the edge of the forest, he picked up a saw and aided them in felling trees for lumber. Bear Island had two main resources—lumber and fish. The fishing was done for the day. He could length his strength to the chopping of lumber. Jorah worked tirelessly, that day, and the following seven. He was up with the sun and did not return home until the light had faded from the sky. Lynesse grew all the more depressed, thinking that he was out drinking or whoring. He had little time to tend to her needs, if she had needs at all. The profit gained by his aid was so minimal, however, that Jorah began to despair anew.

It seemed as though he'd never return some inkling of wealth to the treasury . . . when fate came to him in the guise of a messenger. "My lord!" he heard from the village. Jorah wiped his forehead free from sweat, panting harshly at the exertion of splitting log after log. Bare-chested, his body was coated in the sheen of his sweat. Turning his gaze away from his ax, he looked in the direction of the call. One of his couriers came galloping toward him. "My lord, the rangers have captured a band of poachers. They're being detained for your punishment."

Punishment. Execution, the courier meant. As Lord of Bear Island, it was his duty to carry it out. And here he thought the worst part of his day would be coaxing his wife into being warm towards him tonight. Jorah released his ax and picked up his sword belt again, putting it on and feeling Longclaw's weight at his side—the weight of his duty. Grabbing a green tunic, he pulled it over his head and nodded for the courier to lead on. He was given a horse and followed the courier into the forest.

They rode along a path for a time, over this cliff and that, and then eventually left it and plunged into the untamed wild of the forest. The trees were thick, but their horses found a way through it. Jorah was just beginning to wonder how much further they had to ride when he saw light ahead. Five of his men surrounded three ragged-clothed men on the ground. They had obviously hoped to blend into the environment better with their state of dress. They weren't starving or beggars. Their beards were too finely trimmed and shaped. Likely some forgotten bastards of a Lord.

"My lord," his steward bowed his head, one of the five men guarding their prisoners. "We caught these men poaching. We're confiscated the fine bear fur they managed to pelt before we came upon them. They also were in the process of skinning a shadowcat."

Jorah sighed heavily, about to order the men to drag them to the Hall where he could execute them properly . . . but then paused. He wasn't sure from where the idea had come, but it rose up in his mind then. This wasn't the first time he had caught poachers on his land. Between his first execution, and the culprits who sat before him now, he'd carried out a handful. But now he was recalling a conversation that had occurred years before, when he had been just a lad.

Slavers paid a great deal for those in Westeros. Since it was illegal, such property was highly valued. Even these bastards could be worth quite a great deal of gold. Jorah fidgeted atop his horse, the others stared at him in confusion at his hesitation. He needed the gold. It would be enough to pay his debts and put a little bit of profit back into the treasury . . . if he managed to strike a good deal, at any rate. Of their plight, he gave no thought. To the horrors he may be exposing them to, he hadn't a care. They were a means to fixing a problem he had made. Convincing himself that he was giving them more fair treatment than death, his jaw tightened—his decision made.

"Leave them here," he said to his steward and guard. "I'll execute them here and see to their burial." The guards hesitated this time, their confusion increasing. "There's no point in bloodying the Hall today. I'll see to their punishment here. You're dismissed," he said in a sterner tone. They bowed, and one-by-one, left him alone with the poachers.

"Please, m'lord, we didn't mean any harm," one of them immediately began to beg. "We were starving!"

Jorah ignored their cries and merely dismounted his horse. Once the guards had left the area entirely, he took the rope which bound them together and pulled on it, bringing them to their feet. They looked at each other quizzically, and then at him. Jorah said not a word to them, and instead lead them by the rope to the coast. Slavers were commonly spot sailing by Bear Island. They had business North of the Wall, where the Wildings sometimes traded in slaves for supplies. Jorah tied his poachers to a tree, making sure it was impossible to escape, and then sat out on the coast, waiting.

His thoughts did not touch the illegality of what he was doing. He also vastly ignored the questions coming from the tree where he had tied the poachers. They kept asking about their fate, and he blocked it out. Jorah focused on the gold. On the relief he'd feel when it was over, and House Mormont's coffers were no longer empty. When asked how he'd come by the money, he'd simply say he sold some jewels that his wife no longer cherished. Simple and clean, and something so banal wouldn't be questioned.

Another hour passed, and he began to fret that this may be the day where a Slaver ship did not pass by. Just as he was considering where he might store them—or if he should just give up the fool idea and execute them—he saw it. The ship was small, built for speed instead of fighting. He quickly rose and took out his dagger. He caught the sun and flashed them down. They had long since discovered the code to hail a Slaver ship. Jorah just hoped they hadn't changed it.

A moment passed, and he was about to signal again, when the ship turned in his direction. A breath left his lips, though the unease only lessened marginally. Replacing his dagger, he returned to the poachers and untied them. Hauling them to the coast, they began to see where their futures were headed. "M'lord, please. Kill us. I'd rather die than be a slave!"

"Shut up. Life is life. Besides, we can always escape," another argued.

"More than that, we can tell all who sold us," the last said, snidely, defiance in his eye.

Jorah looked at this one, giving him a cool, measured look. He said nothing to them, in the end, and instead moved forward to greet the Captain of the ship. They came over in a rowboat, the Captain and a few well-armed man. They obviously expected an ambush. Jorah placed Longclaw against a rock as show of good faith. The Captain disembarked and approached him then. He was bronze-skinned with a purple-dyed beard, though no hair atop his head. Tyroshi. "You signaled us," he said, his accent heavy. He was covered in coins and jewels. He obviously aimed to intimidate through his wealth alone.

"I have men for sale," Jorah said without preamble. "How much?"

The Captain clicked his tongue in thought, giving him a smile. He knew well that slavery was illegal in Westeros. Jorah was painfully aware that he was at this man's mercy. Again, he focused on the gold. Watching the Captain examine the men, removing their shirts—even grabbing their cocks—he went so far as to check their teeth before patting their cheeks and turning back to him. "Three hundred dragons. For each."

Jorah clenched his jaw. "Make it a thousand. You and I both know you'll receive twice that amount for Westerosi stock."

"Nine-hundred and fifty," the Captain countered, rolling on his feet with a smug look on his face.

Jorah extended his hand. "Nine-hundred fifty . . . and burn out their tongues. Slaves don't need to speak." The Captain eyed him curiously. The men behind them protested loudly. Yet the Captain understood Jorah's reasoning. Mute slaves could not betray the one who had sold them. He nodded and shook Jorah's hand.

"Done." Gesturing his men forward, he counted out the coins, so Jorah could see, whilst two of his men grabbed each newly minted slave and lit a fire. Once the flames were burning brightly, they took a dagger and heated it in the flames. The slaves struggled, but the Captain's men held them fast. Jorah clenched his jaw, doing his best to ignore them. Gold. He needed the gold. His House needed the gold. He was the Lord of Bear Island, and he needed to save his House . . . and his marriage. ". . . and fifty," the Captain finished, placing the last coin in the bag. He placed it in Jorah's hand. "Pleasure doing business with you. Hope to see you again."

Jorah said nothing. He pocketed the bag and turned away. The dagger had just come off of the fire, and one of the sailors was grabbing onto his target's face. Jorah mounted his horse and rode off, back into the forest . . . the sound of screaming followed him for a mile.

**THREE WEEKS LATER . . .**

The Great Hall in Winterfell was loud with the roar of chatter, laughter and music. Lord Stark was hosting a feast, one that had last a fortnight already. It was a time of great merriment. Jorah met the Stark children and had murmured warmly to Lynesse that he would like to introduce their children to the Stark's someday. She had smiled and kissed him. Though he was no great dancer, he took Lynesse to the floor oft during those days. She loved dancing and delighted in it now. Though she was surrounded by Northern men and women, she found some comfort in the companionship of Catelyn Stark, who was the most Southern-est lady there.

On their last night, Jorah was engrossed in a game of chess with Eddard. Scratching his jaw, he examined the board carefully. His Lord had him in a bit of a tangle. He certainly knew his strategy. Jorah could learn a few things from the man sitting across from him. "How fairs your father?" Eddard inquired.

Jorah continued to worry the patch of hair under his chin, his brow furrowed in concentration. "I have not received word from him in three months. It is not uncommon. He is Lord Commander of the Night's Watch now. His duties are many. Writing to his former son must come last." Perhaps this was spoken too bitterly. Jorah tried again. "He did make mention of your brother's rise in his ranks. Benjen performs well. Father said he was born to wear the Black."

Ned nodded at this, as grim as himself. "Benjen was always a serious lad. When we were young, I'd find him at the window of his bedroom, staring up at the stars. I asked him what he was looking for, and he'd reply, 'purpose, Ned. Meaning.' Boy of eight," he smiled after that. "My older brother, Brandon, was getting into fights and already interested in girls at that age."

Jorah finally made his move, settling back in his chair afterwards. Picking up his mug of ale, he lifted it to his lips and looked over at the high table where Lynesse was situated. She was whispering in Catelyn's ear. Her cheeks were flush. So, his lady-wife was quite swollen with drink tonight. It make her quite warm to him. He wondered what the two whispered about. Children, perhaps? The sound of brass against wood made him turn back to his Lord, where he saw that Eddard had placed him in another tight spot. "I am a poor opponent, my lord," he remarked with a smirk, studying the board once more.

"Nonsense. To boost your ego, I shall tell you that you have kept me on my toes. A game such as this merely requires time. When I'm not running after my son and daughter, it is all I have to do. I understand that Bear Island has kept you busy."

He nodded. "Our wealth is not made easy, my lord, but it is not my place to complain. We've always worked hard. Perhaps one day, we'll dig deep and find we've been sitting on a mine of gold," he joked. Ned smiled at that. As Jorah made his next move, a messenger came up to Eddard.

"My lord. A raven for you," he said, handing Ned the letter. Eddard unrolled it and began to read its contents. Jorah sat back with his ale once more, his gaze returning to his wife. She looked his way, and he offered a smile. She returned it, and his heart warmed, making him tingle far more pleasantly than the ale did.

What was spoken next, however, chilled that warmth to the very bone. "Someone has sold slaves in the North," Ned said aloud. Jorah's heart dropped in his chest, sinking to his stomach. He turned his head back to his lord, who looked very grave. He rolled up the letter and tucked it into his belt, bringing his hand to his face and stroking his beard. "Have you noticed anything odd on your island? It would have been on the coast, most likely. It is the easiest place to perform such a transfer."

Jorah swallowed and fought to look and sound still. "I haven't noticed anything of worth," he replied. "Does the letter say who the slaves were?"

Ned shook his head. "But a sailor recognized them as Westerosi. Their tongues were burned out, so they could not speak the culprit's name, but by the look of them, they were able to distinguish that they were of the North."

Jorah frowned at that. "How so? The paleness of their skin? That doesn't necessarily make the North exclusive," he pointed out. His heart had restarted, but it was pounding too heavily now. It would give him away. His hands were clammy as well. "I shall make inquiries all the same," he added, bowing his head to Eddard.

"I shall do the same," Ned sighed, bringing his own mug of ale wearily to his lips. "If you find the criminal, detain him. The punishment for slavery is execution. I shall do it myself." Jorah felt icy prickles against his skin, as if the blood was draining from it.

"As you command, my lord," he replied.

"Excuse my departure of our game. I must speak to the rest of the Lords. We shall continue at a later time," Eddard said and rose.

"OF course," Jorah said simply and sat back, taking a breath for what felt like the first time. Someone knew. Either they had seen or heard. If the Captain had decided to betray him, Jorah would find that snake and cut off his head. Or perhaps one of the sailors had done it? Did one of the slaves know how to write? No, if that was the case, Ned would have had his name. All the same, he no longer felt safe in Winterfell. When morning dawned the next day, he packed up their things, and he and Lynesse returned to Bear Island.

As soon as they arrived, he made preparations in case they needed to flee in a hurry. A week passed. Then another. Then a month. Jorah began to think that he might be in the clear . . . until he received word from an anonymous letter that Eddard had discovered that he'd sold the slaves and was on his way to execute him. Jorah packed a trunk immediately.

"I don't understand," Lynesse said, looking at the piece of parchment that had served as their warning. "You never sold slaves. Surely, you can just speak to Eddard and tell him this is all a misunderstanding." Jorah did not stop packing, nor did he look up at her. "Jorah . . . Jorah, you didn't." Her tone had become pleading. Looking up at her, he fidgeted, rubbing his thumb against the palm of his hand nervously. That was all she needed. _"Why?"_

"Because I couldn't afford you anymore!" Jorah exclaimed, louder than he had intended. It burst right from his heart. And now that that was out, he couldn't stop. "I put my House into debt for you! You're so fucking unhappy here, and I tried, _I tried,_ to make it better by buying you nice things. But we don't produce enough for the sort of wealth you're used to. We were about to default . . . Robert's damned taxes needed to be paid, and we had nothing. Then these poachers surfaced, and I thought . . . I thought I could get us enough gold to put us back on even ground." Jorah took her hands in his. "I did it for you. For us. We'll just . . . we'll leave this place and go somewhere warmer. Prettier. We'll be happy again."

Lynesse removed her hands from his. "I never asked you to buy me nice things. I didn't ask you to beggar your House."

His jaw tightened, irritation rising. "No, but you never accepted my House as your own either. Your words betray you. My House. It's your House, too, Lynesse. If you had taken the time to know this place, and its people, you might not be half-so miserable as you are now."

She glared at him then, and it was such a cold glare, that he feared he had lost her forever. "Very well. Then tell me your plan, _husband._ Where shall you drag me now?"

Jorah returned to packing. "I booked passage to Lys. A ship is waiting for us as we speak."

"Lys," she repeated. "So you take me further yet from home?"

Jorah closed his eyes, reining himself in. "Lynesse, if I have stoked all the love from you, then you are free to return home." He turned back to her. "But if you love me still, then trust me. I will make this right. And I will make you happy."

Lynesse stared into his eyes for a long moment, measuring him. Jorah's hand trembled. If she left him . . . it would destroy him. She was his happiness. Even now, with his life thrown into disarray and shame, he only needed to see her smile, and he knew he'd be calm and content. She took a slow breath, then nodded. "Lys, it is."

He smiled at her, lightly touching her hand and bringing it to his lips. "It is a place where the pleasure slaves learn the art of the Seven Sighs. We'll find peace there, I'm sure." She gave a small chuckle.

"We'll learn something there, I'm sure."

Later that night, they dressed in dark cloaks and made preparation to leave without light to aid their journey. As of yet, his Aunt and cousins didn't know about their Lord coming to call on them and . . . execute him. Lynesse was already outside, mounting her horse. Jorah remained yet in their bedroom. His hands gripped Longclaw. Valyrian Steel could fetch them a pretty amount. They wouldn't have to worry about money again. They could settle comfortably in Lys and spend the rest of their lives pleasing one another . . . but this was Longclaw. This was his ancestral sword. It had been with House Mormont for five centuries. Before that, he knew not where the sword had come from. His gaze ran over the dark ripples within the blade. He settled on the bear pommel, roaring proudly at its foes.

His thumb ran over the carved features. He felt in that moment the full weight of his shame. He'd tainted not just himself, he realized, but the House Mormont name. Until he faded in obscurity, he'd be remembered as the man who sold men into slavery. That would forever be attached to his House. The family who raised a slave trader. This wasn't his sword anymore. He wasn't a Mormont. He wasn't a Lord. Jorah had thought to compose a letter of apology and explanation to his Aunt.

This would serve as both. Feeling as though he were saying a final farewell to an old friend, he set his sword down on his bed, the pommel resting against his pillow. "I'm sorry, father," he breathed. Grief washed over him, and he closed his eyes tightly against the ache of it in his chest and throat. He felt more the scared boy then than he did facing that bear when he was a lad. His hand gripped his bear claw around his neck, running his finger along its edge. Breathing in and out a tad roughly, he cleared his throat and turned away.

Lynesse was waiting for him at the front gate. His face was stony. Silently, he mounted, and the two rode off into the dark. Jorah led them down a side-path, out of direct sight of the villagers, until they reached the same area where he had sold the slaves. A rowboat was waiting for them. They got in with their things and were rowed to the ship—a small trading ship. They boarded, and the ship set its sails, heading South. They'd need to travel quickly if they hoped to make it Lys before King Robert sent someone after him—if they sent someone after him. He hoped Eddard would just give up after finding he had fled into exile.

As Lynesse vanished to find some comfort in their cabin, he watched Bear Island disappear from view. The sea breeze chilled him to the bone, but it was familiar. The smell, the taste of it, was all he had grown up with. Before long, the water would change. The tall pines eventually became faded into a green blob . . . and then his island disappeared from view—home disappeared from view. He was an outcast now. Jorah felt entirely alone. Helpless.

It seemed one did not understand the meaning of home . . . until one lost it.


	13. Lys

The city of Lys appeared to them as a paradise. The harbor was full of galleys and ships with deep and startling colors. Having lived in a world of green and brown and black—the colors of the North—these vibrant shades were alarming to Jorah’s eyes at first. Lynesse cooed at the sight of them, leaning over the railing to see them better. They disembarked once they landed, pressed into the busy docks. It was bustling with people. Most of them were slaves. Jorah could see their shackled hands and simple clothes. They were all beautiful, however. Each one had sharp cheekbones and vibrant eyes. The infamous bed-slaves of Lys. 

Jorah felt entirely out of place. Everywhere he looked was beauty. His wife, on the other hand, fit right in. Her golden locks shined warmly under the sun, her eyes just as dazzling as the citizens around them. He felt like a wart, standing out even more ugly next to so much beauty. Lynesse seemed entranced by it all, walking into the flow of traffic with ease, as if she had been born to it. He supposed she had. She was from the bustling city. She likely felt more home here—in a different country—than she ever had on Bear Island. 

Hiring a cart to carry their trunks, Jorah led her from the docks and into the city. The traffic lessened only a little. It seemed every inch would be bustling with activity. Merchants littered the streets, trying to sell their wares. Those who boasted the largest crowds were selling flesh. On small stages, a line of young men and women stood naked. The merchant displayed their assets as if they were cattle. He even pumped the young men until their cocks were hard, as if he were showing them a stallion. Jorah averted his gaze, feeling a bad taste brewing in his mouth. This was not Westeros. 

That was made even clearer when he came to notice the engravings and decorations that lined the city’s walls and buildings. Erotic depictions of men and women and women and women and men and men lined the great arches throughout the city. They were carved into fountains and sign posts. It was a wonder there were so many temples littered throughout the city, too. If a Septa ever saw the liberal works of art, their hearts would likely stop in their chests immediately. Somehow, Jorah doubted they had a weirwood here as well. 

Lynesse was wide-eyed as she examined the statues and people. No doubt she was well aware of her husband’s ugliness as well. The majority of Lys’ citizens had the Targaryen coloring—silver hair, purple eyes, pale skin. Seeing the Targaryen family in Westeros had been rare, and they had looked exotic then. Now, surrounded by their ilk, Jorah felt as though he had stumbled into some mystical land. At any moment, he expected a nymph or Child of the Forest to make an appearance. 

They entered a marketplace which was as crowded as the docks. “Here,” Jorah handed his wife a pouch of coins, “get yourself something to eat. I’m going to speak to the magistrate and find us a home.” He hoped there was something available, though knowing their finances, he didn’t expect half-as-glorious as some of the buildings he saw. This was a city for the Merchant Princes and Slave Owners—not the exiled. Jorah made his way to an official building and waited in the queue to be seen. That alone stole an hour from the day.

When at last the Magistrate saw him, as Jorah had expected, the only homes available were rentals and in the poorer part of the city. Since he could not have his gentle wife sleeping on the street, he paid for one of decent size and monthly payment, and then received the keys. Jorah returned to the marketplace, searching for Lynesse. Though a great deal of the crowd was silver-haired, there were croppings of browns, blacks and blondes. Visitors from Tyroshi added in a few blues, greens and purples, too. It was her laughter that eventually led him to her. 

Though he hadn’t heard it in awhile, it came lofting over to him above the din of chatter and shouting to settle pleasantly in his ear. Following the sound, he found her in front of a large stall selling trinkets and perfumes. She was not alone. Beside her was a man dressed in fine silk with as much jewelry as his wife owned dangling from his ears and throat and fingers. “Lynesse,” he announced himself, lightly touching her arm. “I have a place for us to stay.”

“Oh, lovely. I’ve grown tired of traveling for the day. Tregar, this is my husband, Ser Jorah,” Lynesse introduced him. 

“Ah, so _this_ is the bear,” the man gave a slimy smile to Jorah. “Your wife was telling me about you. A Knight of Westeros. What brings you to our humble little island?” Tregar asked. 

“A change of weather,” Jorah replied stiffly. “We desired something a little more temperate.”

“No doubt for those old joints, eh?” Tregar nudged him. 

Before Jorah could respond with something rude, Lynesse showed him a small bottle. “Look, my love, at this little gift Tregar has given me.”

“A potent perfume for a beautiful woman. Your husband will quite enjoy it, I am sure,” Tregar winked at Jorah, who only stared stoically back at him. The longer they remained in this man’s company, the more uncomfortable Jorah felt. He smiled too much . . . looked at Lynesse too much . . . and who bought another man’s wife perfume? 

“I am sure,” he replied coldly. “Until another time,” he bowed his head in farewell and took Lynesse’s hand, pulling her from the crowd. Once they were far enough away, he asked idly, “what did he want?” 

“Want?” Lynesse gave him a confused look. “Only to give me this bottle of perfume. He said that a drop of sunshine should smell like a drop of sunshine. I was quite grateful—I smell like fish.” Whether this was a jab at his home or not, Jorah wasn’t sure, but he cast a stormy eye at the bottle of perfume in her hands. 

“You should be careful,” he told her. “Poison is common here. There’s little honor found beyond the Narrow Sea.” Which was precisely why it was the only place for them to flee. He was not just an exile, but a disgraced exile. These were his people now—vagabonds and thieves and slavers. The topic displeased her, if the twisting of her lips had anything to say about it, and so he ventured on a new subject. “They did not have any homes for sale. Not in our ability to pay, anyway. So, I found us a place to stay that we must rent. I will have to find employment and quickly.” 

Lynesse frowned at this. “I thought we’d be together here. Living in leisure for the rest of our days. What will you do?”

Jorah wasn’t entirely sure. He was educated, but in the ways of how to rule. He had no great skill in managing finances. That was obvious. He supposed he could try and join with a fishing crew, but the wage for that was likely too small to pay for both home and food. “I shall search tomorrow,” he told her in answer. They left the busy city center and wandered down streets that were becoming rapidly poor. Lynesse’s smile lessened the further they walked. A few naked children ran past them, chasing a chicken. Shit clung to sides of the street at certain turns. Jorah had seen worse states of living in King’s Landing . . . though not by much. 

At last, they came to their home. Jorah unlocked the front door and allowed her in first, dragging their things in behind him. They lit a few candles, opened up some windows and found the place—other than needing a good-washing—to be agreeable. There was a large sitting room with fire that doubled as a dining hall. A small kitchen was in the back. A loo in the front near the door. There were steps on the right that led to a loft area which served as their bedroom. It was just low enough to fit a wardrobe. 

“What do you think?” Jorah turned to his wife anxiously. “Can you make it your own?” She glanced around once more, her hands clasping together in front of her. Then she looked at him, examining his face. She came to him, lightly cupping his face in her hands and pressing a kiss to his lips. 

“We can make it home,” she murmured. Jorah smiled, relieved, and watched her step back. “Even more so because we don’t have servants to do the unpacking for us now.” He smirked at that. “If my mother could see me now . . . she was always on me about cleaning up my room myself. Well, mother, I’m _making_ my room now.”

Approaching her, he gently ran his fingertips over along her spine through her dress. He wished for her thoughts to be taken from that pretty bottle of perfume. “I suggest we make up our bedchambers, first,” he purred low. He felt her shiver and turned to him with a heat in her eyes that made him believe that everything was going to be alright. 

“Who says we need to make up anything for that?” she replied and grabbed him, pulling him to the floor with her. 

**THE NEXT DAY**

As he had worried, the wages paid to fishermen was not enough to get by. Not with a wife like Lynesse. Jorah searched through the city, asking for employment. Since Lys’ primary product was slaves—bedslaves, at that—he kept hitting dead ends. It seemed if one was not born into a Merchant family, then one was a slave. There were very few in-betweens except for one course of action. He’d seen their flyers stationed at the taverns, promising blood and a lot of coin. 

Lys had recently declared war against the Braavosi over some disputed territory on the Rhoyne. Since they had no standing army, they simply paid troupes of sellswords to fight their battles for them. He supposed there was some wisdom to this approach. Why waste one’s own men when others were willing to do it for oneself? Yet, he was wary of sellswords. These were men who killed for coin. Honor was not among their number either. But he needed to stop thinking of himself as an honorable man, anyway. He’d buried that back home. 

Entering the Shy Maiden—a tavern the flyer had said to sign up at—he glanced around. Men dressed in leather and armor sat about the tables, drinking their fill and trading war stories. He saw a queue in front of a table and joined it. When he reached the front, he was met with a large man—not of fat, but with muscle. His jaw was crooked, and had quite the large nose. He wore armor, a blackheart emblem etched upon his chest. “Name,” the man said gruffly, eyeing Jorah up.

“Ser Jorah Mormont,” he replied, feeling a pricle of unease by giving his last name. If there was a warrant out for his head, he wouldn’t put it past a couple of mercenaries to betray him and turn him in. The man didn’t seem to recognize the name, however, and he released a slow breath of relief when he simply pushed a paper in front of him. 

“Sign here. It’s a contract for a year fighting the Braavosi. You survive, you get paid. We split it even. Simple as that. You die, you don’t get the gold. Sort of failed the job if you died, didn’t you?” he grunted. Jorah didn’t say anything, simply scanned over the piece of paper before signing his name below. “’Ser’ you said,” the man looked him over. “Another exiled knight, huh?” Jorah glanced up at him at this, a cold prickle running down the back of his neck. “You’re in good company in the Gold Company. We’re a bunch of exiles. Myself, included.” He checked Jorah’s signature then held out his hand. “Myles Toyne. I’m Captain-General of this crew. Folks call me Blackheart.” Jorah gripped his hand and shook it firmly. “Welcome to the Golden Company. We leave at the end of the week. Meet us at the harbor at dawn.”

Toyne flicked a golden coin to him. Jorah caught it and tucked it into his coin pouch. That would settle the rent for a few months, at least. Before he left, Jorah glanced over the men he had just joined. They all looked battle worn. Had Toyne meant it by saying they were mostly exiles? Perhaps this was meant to be then. A bunch of men without a home searching for one. He supposed he was in good company, after all. Jorah left the tavern and returned home to break the news to Lynesse. 

“What do you mean you’re not sure how long you’ll be gone?” was her immediate question. “You’re going to leave me here, alone, in a place I don’t know? With no friends or families to visit and depend on?”

Jorah shifted uncomfortably under the pained stare of his wife. “It’s the only way to make a decent amount of money. I can put enough away to allow us to live comfortably for a time. They pay well. We’ll be set for a few years. By then, I can find something more suitable to us both. For now, though, I need to make coin quickly. Or else we’ll be sleeping on the streets.” He lightly took her by the waist, holding her against him. “I’ll write when I can. It may not even be that long. A few weeks. Surely, you can last that long?” 

Lynesse did not smile. “You’re leaving me here alone. In a place I don’t know.” 

“Would you rather ride with me? Be so close to fighting? With men eager for a wet cunt after battle? I can’t protect you there. You’re safest here,” Jorah insisted.

She sighed heavily at that. Jorah knew she wouldn’t want to be out there in the muck and so close to battle. “Fine,” she said at last, a tone of resignation in her voice. “But if you die, I’m selling everything that’s yours and going back home.”

A kiss was pressed to her forehead. “I won’t die. Not if I have my lady’s favor.” She smiled lightly at that. “I’ll coat your cock in my favor,” she murmured, pulling him towards the stairs to their bed. “And something to take with you, too. Come, husband, if you’re going to leave me for an extended time, then you need to make me feel it for the months to come.”


	14. The Return

A permanent, skeletal smile transfixed Jorah that night. From the campfire's light, the toothy grin gleamed yellow and bright. A skull—one of many—hung off of the Captain-General's tent. It was the Golden Company's way, he had learned. Whenever a Captain-General passed, their skull was removed and cleaned, and then dipped into gold. Numerous skulls littered the tent now. Did one of them belong to Aegor Rivers? Vaguely, Jorah wondered if he remained in the Golden Company . . . would he work his way up the ranks to become Captain-General himself? Would his skull adorn the next Captain-General's tent? Perhaps they'd be kind and send it to Lynesse. She'd likely need the gold.

"Do they scare you?" he heard beside him. Jorah looked and saw one of his new 'brothers' making himself comfortable at the fire. Black Balaq, the man was named. He was the commander of the Company's archers.

"They interest me," Jorah replied, offering the Summer Islander his flask of ale. The commander took it and sipped heartily. "History decorates our Captain-General's tent. Stories. Immortality, even. These men live on because their followers remember them. With so physical a presence, it's likely difficult to forget them," he added with a small smirk.

Balaq grunted and gave a grin, handing Jorah his flask back. "It is true. I could give you the name of each skull and how he died and in what battle. For us, it gives us strength. We have a tradition of doing our job . . . and doing it well. For our enemies, it strikes fear in their hearts. When they see the glint of gold, the ghoulish smile . . . they tremble. We will need such trembling tomorrow. We fight the Braavosi."

Jorah frowned at this. "I've never fought a Braavosi before. What can I expect?"

Balaq gave a distasteful look towards the fight. "Water dancers. They like to dance on the battlefield. They're no easy fight, that much is true. They have light swords, light armor, so they can move quickly. You are a knight, no?" Jorah nodded. "Your armor will weigh you down. I suggest wearing leather instead." Jorah bristled at this. It went against every instinct he had as a fighter. "They will not fight you like a Westerosi knight would. Do not worry about form so much as your footwork. And don't try to get fancy. Leave that to them. Just stab to kill. Not to wound. The faster you put him down, the better for you."

It sounded exhausting, all things considered. Jorah grit his jaw, wondering if he should finish that letter to Lynesse, after all. Fighting the Braavosi sounded like an entirely new animal to what he was used to fighting. Bringing his flask to his lips, he took a long drink. Balaq gave a throaty chuckle beside him. "Worry not, Ser Knight. You have my archers. We will pierce through those dancing cunts before they can take a step." Standing, the Islander clapped his shoulder before taking his leave.

Jorah was left alone at his campfire once again. They had been camped on the Rhoyne for a month now, waiting for their targets to arrive. They'd trained and drilled every day since their arrival. Discipline was the Golden Company's bread and water, he had learned that. Jorah hadn't minded the physical activity. It kept his thoughts from turning black. Being so far from Lynesse, he felt the pangs of homesickness all the more keenly. It was hot in Essos. Oft, he longed for the cool breezes of Bear Island.

He had exchanged letters with Lynesse through most of that time. From what she had said, she was finding ways of keeping herself occupied. There were a few like-minded ladies that she had taken as friends and wished to introduce him to them once he returned. That comforted him. So long as Lynesse had friends, she would be happy. It was what she had lacked on Bear Island—women able to connect with her. Tonight, the quiet, still night before battle, he longed for her the most. Her calm and sure hands on his face. Most of all, he missed her smile and the way it lit her eyes and dazzled him. He needed that smile now more than ever.

As pink lines began to appear across the sky, he knew what he needed even more than her smiles was sleep. If the Braavosi sought to tire him, he wouldn't make it that easy for them by having a sleepless night. Rising, Jorah turned and went into his small tent. His cot and saddlebags were the only thing that really fit in the tent. He had to stoop upon entering and walk a fine line in order not to step on anything to get to his cot. Falling upon it, he reached under his pillow and took out Lynesse's letters.

_'Come back safely to me, my Bear.'_

_'Your loving wife.'_

_'My body nearly aches as much as my heart from the distance between us.'_

Eagerly, he read his favorite lines from her letters. They were not poetry, but each word had been etched with love, and so they were all the more beautiful to him. Tenderly, he tucked them away once more and rested on his back, staring up at the canopy of his tent. Outside, horses snorted, men murmured or laughed drunkenly. Armor clinked, fires cracked, and beyond that, the Rhoyne roared. Tomorrow, the river would run red.

**THE NEXT DAY**

The red sky was reflected by the red earth. Jorah was sent with the second battalion of men across the river. Since the Braavosi were too cowardly to come to their bank—as Toyne had said—they would sail to their bank instead and ram their swords down their throats. Toyne left with the first battalion, and Jorah's unit was fast behind them. The roar of battle was already louder than the river. Some of the fighting was spilling into the river itself, drowning men both ally and enemy.

Stretching his arms, Jorah unsheathed his sword once their barge neared the shoreline. He'd taken Balaq's advise and left his armor in his trunk. Instead, he wore a quickly-assembled leather jerkin with matching greaves and vambraces. Wrapping cloth around his hands, he took a few breaths and steadied his rattling heart in his chest. One would think he'd be used to battle by now . . . but this was against a foreign enemy, and he had no real friends here to watch his back. Breathing in deeply to calm his body and focus his mind, he glanced at their commander—a man whose name he had yet to learn.

"Ready yourselves, men!" he shouted, hoisting his sword in the air. "Let's go give those cunts a real dancing lesson!" Around Jorah, the men cheered and roared, the fire of battle already lit in their belly. Jorah grit his teeth together and prepared to charge. There was a sharp jolt as the barge skid onto the shore, and then the gangplank was dropped, and they were rushing forward into the fray. Toyne's men were holding a firm line, keeping the Braavosi from pushing forward, but it was clear they needed reinforcements.

The Golden Company was not one's typical sellsword company either. Instead of charging blindly and without impact, the disciplined and seasoned warriors attacked according to strategy. Jorah's unit was sent to pincer the Braavosi from the side. As their enemy became aware of them, they turned from Toyne's men to deal with this new force. Jorah was swallowed into battle, blindly parrying at the swift strikes that seemed to come from all around him.

Yet despite this, he couldn't seem to actually find an enemy. They were moving too quickly. Darting in and out. Odder still, when he finally found one to face, the man was standing to the side, holding his sword out towards Jorah with one hand. Where the bloody hell was he supposed to attack!? The Braavosi noticed his hesitance and struck first. The slender sword came swinging down as quickly as lightning. Jorah just barely managed to parry it in time. But as soon as the sword bounced off, the Braavosi was striking again, moving with the momentum. This time the attack came too quickly, and Jorah's arm was sliced.

The sharp pain made him grunt, and the Braavosi grinned, performing some ridiculous twirl before coming at him again. Jorah backed off, mindful of his opponent's quick agility. He needed to get a hit in, or else he was done for. Ignoring the ache in his arm, Jorah tried to match the man's footwork. Though he was slower, it was only by a half-step. Had he worn his metal armor, he'd have been woefully slow and likely dead. Holding his sword in front of him, Jorah took the offense.

To his annoyance, the Braavosi kept stepping back, his body still held to the side, so Jorah's target was essentially absent. Their swords clang and bounced, the Braavosi quickly fending Jorah's attacks off and keeping out of his reach. Growing frustrated, Jorah quickened his step, charging faster and faster. A sword strike to the left, right, above—all were deflected, but he was backing the Braavosi into a wall—or, rather, a line of men. The Braavosi, sensing this, did something Jorah had never seen before. As he came in to attack, the Braavosi leapt up and flipped right over Jorah's head. Seeing a glint of steel, Jorah dove to his knees, ducking, as he felt the air from the sword brush his hair in a near miss. The Braavosi had jumped over him! And landed on his feet!

Jorah quickly spun and righted himself, his astonishment showing on his face. The Braavosi grinned broadly, bowing his head. "Fuck that," Jorah grunted. So, the Braavosi were acrobats. No one had thought it wise to inform him of that!? Right, what was the strategy against men who could leap and twirl like damned dandies? The Braavosi advanced this time, obviously wanting to implement the plan Jorah had been intending to use against him earlier. He'd just have to think on his feet.

The strikes came again. Jorah parried at his right knee, then at his head and side. The blows were fast, but not rushed. They were smooth and calculated. It was terrifying. He'd never fought against something like this. He was giving ground, and he knew he was quick to running out of it. His arms were tiring as well, fending off the attacks as he was. The Braavosi was likely counting on this. He jumped up, twirling, his sword whipping like a whirlwind at Jorah.

Then it hit him. He wasn't moving. He was just trying to keep the battle in one place. If he wanted to get close to his enemy, he needed to his dance against him. Jorah saw another strike coming his way, but instead of parrying it, he dodged. The momentum of the Braavosi's swing had him stumbling forward, not having expected the momentum to follow-through, but rather ricochet, so he could easily swing into his next step, but without that ricochet, his dance had been interrupted. Jorah quickly kicked down on the sword, embedding it into the dirt and brought his sword up at the same time, slamming it through the Braavosi's chest.

The man sputtered in disbelief, coughing up blood. Jorah wrenched his sword freed, kicking the man onto the ground. He'd be dead in seconds. Leaving him there to bleed out, he took only a few steps before being confronted with his next opponent. This Braavosi, younger than the first, seemed eager to show off first-thing, for he was jumping into the air already, intending to soar over Jorah's head and attack his unguarded back.

But Jorah was not surprised at this feat anymore. As the Braavosi moved over his head, he quickly deflected his sword blow and wrenched his sword upwards through the Braavosi's neck. As the body came to the ground, it was short one less head—which came to a fall a few feet from it. Jorah took a quick breath before throwing himself back into the massacre, his battle lust engaged and thirsting to shed more blood.

They were victorious their first battle, but Braavos was not going to give up that easily. According to their scouts, more battalions were on their way. A few months of fighting quickly became six. During small periods of peace, Jorah was unable to return to Lys, for he had received letters informing him that his debt was rising in Lys. Lynesse was spending the money he earned faster than he could send it. His furloughs, thus, were spent no other than in Braavos, where he borrowed money to cover his debts, so his wife could eat and have a home.

The war continued. Six months turned into another six months, and finally, Braavos called a truce. The disputed land they had been fighting over was given to Lys. The Golden Company—and the other hired sellsword companies—were successful. They were going home. Jorah took the last of his money and sailed home. He knew he needed to speak with Lynesse again about her spending habits. They could not live so extravagantly. Not yet, at least.

Despite this slightly sour conversation brooding over his head, Jorah was eager to see his wife. It had been far too long since he had seen her, held her, kissed her. He spent most of his journey daydreaming of their reunion—particularly of her smile. The war with the Braavosi had hardened him. His skin was tanned and rough. He bore more scars than when he had left. But he was well and whole and eager to lay with his wife. He was determined to get her with child before he had to leave for the next campaign—wherever that might be.

At last, the ship pulled into harbor, and after he had said his farewells with the rest of the Company, Jorah took quick steps down the crumbling streets to his home. With his treasures—small little trinkets he had taken from his fallen opponents—in a bag around his back, Jorah eagerly opened the door . . . and found Lynesse giggling and sitting in the lap of an overly dressed, perfumed snake. Not just any snake either. Jorah remembered his face. Tregar Ormollen. A quiet, cold fury seeped into his bones as he froze in the doorway. "Lynesse," he said quietly, his gaze never leaving Tregar's, "I'm home."

She paled, the laughter dying on her lips, but she did not move from Tregar's lap . . . did not come to him. "You are wrong, Ser Exile," Tregar smiled pleasantly at him. "This is my home now. I could hardly let the lovely Lynesse here sleep on the streets. When she told me of her precarious financial situation, I took it upon myself to lend a helping hand. This house now belongs to me . . . along with everything in it."

Jorah's jaw was clenched so tightly, he heard it click. "Lynesse," he said through his grit teeth, "come with me. I have enough coin to find us somewhere nicer."

"Actually," Tregar countered, "you don't. I did a little digging, you see. Ser Jorah Mormont, you owe quite a great deal to the moneylenders in Braavos. I'm sure whatever you have in that sack of yours there might pay for . . . half? . . . of what you owe?" he smirked, his tone patronizing. "But I am a giving man. Quite charitable and generous. I will pay those debts . . . in exchange for your wife," Tregar ended in a purr, his lips pressing to her cheek. Lynesse smiled at him. "Well . . . former wife. We've already had it annulled, I'm afraid."

This was a blow. Jorah visibly teetered for a moment. "How? I was not there. I did not sign a paper."

Tregar waved his hand. "A mere trifle. For all intents and purposes, you are no longer married. Though if you do sign, I can give you . . . oh . . . her weight in gold, shall we say? You could start a nice new life with that amount." Jorah was silent, his gaze hard. "No, I thought you might not. Ah well. Concubines come in all shapes and forms. You would not be the first married woman I've brought into my home," he hummed to Lynesse, his arm wrapping tightly around her waist.

"Lynesse," Jorah managed to release, a breath expelled from his lungs. Pain was etched into his face . . . pained confusion. He didn't understand . . . what was happening.

"If you insist on making trouble, however," Tregar said, and his voice became far less pleasant. "I can arrange to have you enslaved for your debts. The choice is quite simple, all things considered." Slavery? Jorah inwardly scoffed at that. How fitting for him, really.

Before he could even think to answer, Lynesse spoke. "Leave, Jorah." His gaze touched hers. There was sadness in her gaze . . . but not remorse. None that he could see, anyway.

"Lynesse, I—"

"Go," she interrupted him a tad sharply. "I do not love you anymore." Another blow. Jorah felt it nearly cripple him. His lungs could barely fill with oxygen. Nausea washed over him, cold prickling kissing his skin and making him sweat. How had this happened? "Leave. I never wish to see your face again." Tregar gave him a pointed look at this. Jorah made some blind move. He was reaching for something, though he wasn't sure what, but Tregar clicked his tongue.

"As I said, everything in this house is now mine. What you own is on your back. Leave Lys. If you ever come to this city again, I will see that you are sold in the next slave market," Tregar informed him.

Jorah barely registered any of this. Blearily, he turned and left the house. With the door closed behind him, he was able to breathe again. With a deep intake of breath, agony wrested itself on his heart. He'd lost his wife. To a damned merchant prince. The cold fury returned, and he had half a mind to charge back in there and throttle the man to death . . . but Lynesse would not want him even then. She'd likely hate him for killing her only salvation.

Entrapped in his ceaseless torment, Jorah was unaware of where he was going, yet at some point, he found himself back at the harbor—one scar added since last he had walked its planks. Blindly, he traded coin with the first Captain he met and boarded the ship. Questions circled his mind as he sat upon a cot in the belly of the ship. What was he to do now? Where was he to go? But the most pertinent came around and around again—

_Why had she left him?_

The passengers who shared his space avoided the large man dressed in assorted armor who quietly wept into his worn and dirty cot. The man who had lost his home, honor, family . . . and wife.


	15. What Comes Next

Somehow, his wanderings led him to Volantis. It was a strange city, though more familiar than Lys had been. The slaves crowded this city, making the already hot and humid temperature all the hotter. His clothes stuck to his skin, and his hair curled from the moisture. It was not a comfortable city to be in for someone used to dry and cold temperatures. The smell, however, was extremely familiar. Since Volantis was situated just off of the Rhoyne, fish was plentiful. The reek of it reminded him of home. It was pleasant, despite how poignant it was, and it was this smell that convinced him to stay in Volantis for a time. 

With little gold in his pocket, Jorah slept in an inn his first night—just off of Fishmonger’s Square. The next night, he slept in an alley. The desire to spend his remaining coin on drink was prevalent. Some part of him hoped a crazed fool might find him and put him out of his misery. But even in wishing for death, he was unlucky. When he was awake, he spent time exploring the city. It was large and cut into halves. There was the Old City, which was surrounded by a black stone wall. Jorah learned that it was dragonglass. It shimmered under the light, but touching it was enough to scald the skin under the hot sun. The New City was situated across the Long Bridge, built over the mouth of the Rhoyne. 

It was the Fishmonger’s Square, in the end, that he stuck the closest to. The people here were populous. He spent most of his day sitting on the edge of one of the decoratively carved fountains—no doubt likely sculpted during the time dragons flew—watching the merchants sell their wares. The Priests and Priestesses of R’hllor were almost as common as the slaves. They could be easily spotted in their cloaks of road. They took positions on the corners of the square preaching about their Lord of Light, and the Night that was full of terrors. They just gave him a night full of headaches. 

Jorah did have to admit, however, that the Temple of the Lord of Light was an impressive sight. It was thrice the size of the Great Sept in King’s Landing. Towers and buttresses and bridges and pillars were all carved in such a way that made it appear seamless. And the color . . . Jorah did not know that stone could be such a color. Oranges and red and yellows all mixed that it made the stone appear to be fire itself. Though Jorah doubted the validity of R’hllor—and even less now the Gods in general—he could not help but be moved at the impressive feat of architecture. 

However, the stares the Priests—and especially the Priestesses—sometimes fixed on him made him uncomfortable. Which was why, primarily, he was looking for work. It seemed that fate would not let him die, and so he had best stop wallowing and continue to live. For what reason, he was unsure, but it seemed he was not meant to die here. With nothing but his sword and the clothes on his back, Jorah approached the Merchant’s House. It was the busiest inn in Volantis, and if there was to be posted work anywhere, he’d find it here. 

Entering, he was nearly pressed into the wall immediately. The inn opened on a dining hall—as most inns did—but this one also had a stage. A band of musicians were currently playing, and it seemed to have drawn in a crowd. Jorah pushed his way through the people, trying to get to the notice board near the desk where one procured a room. Squeezing between two rather tubby blokes, he reached it and read over the notices. 

_‘Looking for a copper pot. DO NOT send me a chamber pot. Last one I got had urine still in it. I will report you to the Triarch if you do.’_

Jorah snorted at that, moving on to the next notice.

_‘Child. Female. For sale. Family has run out of money, and we have too many mouths to feed. She’s pretty with a promising bust. Pleasure and labor Masters welcome to inquire.’_

_‘Tired of being unsatisfied by your husband? Have a scratch you just can’t itch? Stop by Nine-Inch-Nevos’ and he’ll pound you until the Black Wall comes down. No men.’_

_‘Coin for fighters. Need an escort to Qohor. Half-now, the rest is given upon reaching Qohor safely. Veterans preferred. Inquire Vhalaso at Vhalaso’s Valuables in the Fishmonger’s Square.’_

Well, that would do. Jorah turned and was immediately shoved back into the counter. Grunting, he hit the corner and felt a sharp pain erupt in his lower back. A body had fallen back into him. The man pushed off of him and charged forward, seemingly towards the one who had shoved him in the first place. Looking over the man’s head, he saw a pair of Dothraki horselords. Fighting broke out, the crowded room becoming even more chaotic as men either joined the fight or tried to get out of the way. 

“What happened?” Jorah heard someone shout, likely the inn owner. 

“Some fool tried to barter with a Dothraki with coin. Idiot obviously doesn’t know they’re a bartering people.”

Jorah wanted no tangle in this. He needed to reach the market before this Vhalaso went home. Getting out, however, was easier said than done. With all of the bodies crammed together, people were being pulled into the fight whether they wanted to or not. Jorah was among them. He was suddenly face-to-face with a rough-looking sort who charged the small distance between them. Jorah ducked the fist that came flying towards his head and shoved the man face-first into the counter behind him. The impact wasn’t enough to knock him out, unfortunately, for the wild—or drunk—brawler stood back up and elbowed Jorah in the mouth before he could move. 

Grunting, Jorah clasped his hand to his mouth. No broken teeth, but he had bit his lip, and there was a trickle of blood running down his chin. “Fine,” he murmured in irritation and punched, but the brawler blocked him, instead giving Jorah a good whack into his chest. The breath left his lungs, and he gasped sharply. Gritting his teeth, Jorah grabbed the man’s arm, breaking it with a sharp tug. That had him screaming. Jorah punched again, this time not blocked, hitting the man right in the face. It felt . . . damned good . . . to alleviate some of the agony in his soul. The man mumbled something, and Jorah stopped.

His knuckles were bloody and bruised. The attacker was worst off. The left side of his face was swollen and bleeding. Jorah dropped him, breathing sharply. He spat out some of the blood clogging his mouth, and shoved more violently through the people to get out of the inn. Chairs were being used and tossed. He had just managed to get to the door as one smashed into the wall right beside him. Those who had escaped the fight were outside of the inn, looking anxiously within. Noticing that more Dothraki were showing up, Jorah took that moment to disappear. This was a fight he didn’t need to be any further a part of. 

Shouts from the fight followed him for some time, since the Merchant’s House was close to the Square. Pushing past slaves and horses—and ducking under palanquins—he searched stall after stall. At long last, he found the sign ‘Vhalaso’s Valuables’ and stepped up. “Greetings!” came an accented voice. “It is not often that I receive the pleasure of doing business with a Westerosi. Has one of my exotic and reasonably-priced items caught your eye?” The man was stout. It was clear immediately to Jorah why this man required an escort. His head only came to Jorah’s chest, and his skin was milky white. This was a man of soft pillows and silks. He’d never fought a day in his life. The merchant was smiling pleasantly up at him, his hair oiled back and beaded. He wore a carefully trimmed mustache that sprouted around his mouth and joined a goatee. Jorah thought it looked like a giant worm that strangled his lips. 

“I’m here for your notice,” he said. 

“Ah,” the pleasantness left his eyes a little, no doubt due to the fact that he’d be giving Honors rather than receiving them. “Well,” he eyed Jorah, “you seem the rough type.” Jorah noticed the merchant was looking at his bloody knuckles and lip. “Half now and half later. Three hundred Honors.”

“Qohor is a long distance. A lot can happen during that time. Five hundred Honors,” Jorah countered. 

“You are not the only man escorting me,” Vhalaso informed him. “Four hundred. No more. There are plenty of other ruffians in this city.”

Jorah nodded his head. “Done. When do we leave?” Vhalaso reached into his pouched and took out two hundred Honors, placing them in Jorah’s large hands. Quickly, Jorah put them in his own pouch, where they rattled against the other coins from Lys, Braavos and Westeros. 

“Two days. Meet at the harbor. We’re taking a ship to Qohor. Word has spread that the pirates at Dagger Island have become . . . feisty . . . as of late. Make sure you’re prepared to fight. I won’t lose any of my cargo,” Vhalaso warned him. 

Jorah nodded, his hand falling to rest at the pommel of his sword. “You’ll reach Qohor safely. I swear it.”

Vhalaso smiled at that. “Spoken like a true Westerosi. Now, away with you. You’re scaring away my customers.”

With the new coin, Jorah did not sleep on the streets that night. He found a bed in an inn less popular than the Merchant’s House. The next day, he took the time to buy supplies for his journey. Bandages, healing herbs and tonics, some fresh oil and a whetstone for his sword . . . the necessary items for any hired guard. It was during his journey across the Long Bridge that he saw it . . . Grey and ginormous, the elephant moved past him draped in silk and jewels. Atop it rode one of the Triarchs, he assumed. The elephant was decorated to ornately to be anyone else’s. 

His jaw slacked slightly as he watched the lumbering animal pass him by on the Bridge. He’d never seen anything so large. Tusks—brilliant white and as long as his entire body—curved and were ordained with glittering gems and a banner that read ‘Doniphos Paenymion.’ Well, that was certainly a way to catch one’s eye and announce one’s presence. Behind the elephant walked slaves with flies tattooed on their cheeks. They paused to shovel some of the elephant’s droppings into large bins on their backs. Jorah glanced back at the elephant, moved by its majesty. Beneath him, he could still feel the ground rumble from the animal’s steps. A wonder had just walked by him. 

The next day, he arrived at the harbor with a small pack of his supplies—really all he had to his name. His mother’s books were wrapped securely in leather and burlap, the last tie he had to home. He found his employer and two other men boarding a small cog. The ship was small but serviceable for their needs. It seemed Vhalaso wanted to travel as cheaply as possible. Climbing aboard, he checked in with Vhalaso, and then put his bag in the belly of the ship where he’d sleep. Then he resurfaced and met with the other two men who were hired to protect Vhalaso. 

They were a pair of Braavosi brothers looking to gain glory. Jorah thought they were looking rather desperately if they hoped to find it aboard a merchant’s ship against some pirates. Regardless, they had brought some rather potent alcohol and were happy to share it. “You will soon see, Jorah the Andal,” one of the brothers—Bobono—said with a boastful grin. “Above the Titan, you shall see our statues standing on his shoulders—looming even higher!” 

“So, the Titan will dangle between one of your legs. Which of you will dangle under your brother?” Jorah inquired, mirth appearing in his eyes. 

Roggo, the other brother, glanced at Bobono. “I am the oldest. I will be the tallest.”

“Ah! That is because my cock is the largest, and you fear it will touch your head if I am above you,” Bobono decreed. 

Jorah chuckled, the sound almost foreign to his ears, it had been so long. “When I travel to Braavos next, I will look for your statues,” he promised them. The poor fools. They’d likely be dead in two years. Quests for glory oft ended the same. The sails were eventually unfurled, and they began their journey down the Rhoyne. Jorah positioned himself at the bow, watching the river past. It was a large river, perhaps even larger than the Trident. As they broke off from the city, it seemed to wind around them like a lake more so than a river. 

“Jorah the Andal, look!” Roggo joined him at the bow, pointing into the water. “Old Men.” Jorah peered over the railing and saw a large shell. Two more shells swam by it. Each had five limbs stick out from under the shell. Tortoises. They ambled rather quickly beside the ship—though steady and calmly. “They make for an excellent soup.” 

“We call them tortoises. Or, in their case, giant turtles,” Jorah told Roggo. 

“They are Old Men of the River here,” Roggo told him. “Is this your first time sailing the Rhoyne, Jorah the Andal?”

The incorrect ancestry nearly made Jorah correct the Braavosi . . . but he let it go. Andal. First Men. They were likely all the same to the people in Essos. “It is,” Jorah replied, “though I’ve fought in its waters before. Against Braavosi, no less,” he added with a smirk. 

“Oho!” Roggo gave him a challenging grin. “If you survived against our water dancers, then you must be a fine fighter, indeed! Perhaps we will duel some time, hm?” 

Jorah gave a small smile—fleeting—and then turned his gaze back to the river. Stories flooded his mind that he had read over the years about the Rhoyne. “I heard legend once that during the Rhoynish Wars, the Rhoynar used water magic against the dragonlords of Valyria. They conjured soldiers from its essence who were immune to the flame of a dragon. In one battle, a dragon even drowned beneath the depths of the river, and its bone can be found there still.” Roggo smiled knowingly, these were tales he had obviously heard before. “And during the Long Night, the water froze all the way to Selhoru.”

This made Roggo frown. “The Long Night?”

Jorah clarified, “you may it call something else. A winter that spread across all of Westeros and parts of Essos, even. It froze the land and led to starvation. The stories say there were monsters as well in that winter, but they say that if you don’t say your prayers at night, these monsters sneak into your bedroom and take you away to their Land of Winter.” Children’s tales. His father had always gone quiet when stories about the Long Night were told. They were good stories, but Jorah believed they were just that—stories. Monsters were an excellent scapegoat when people didn’t want to admit to themselves that they had massacred one another over bits of food. Or that they had eaten their own children to ease the ache in their stomachs. 

“Ahhh,” Roggo nodded. “We call it the Darkness. It ate the Rhoyne, turning it to glass. Until a hero brought together the many children of the Mother Rhoyne, like the Crab King and the Old Man of the River, to join together and sing a song that brought back the day.” 

Jorah lifted an eyebrow. “Singing?”

“Yes, my friend! The right song can stir any beast’s—or stubborn woman’s—heart,” he nudged him with a bright grin. “I shall show you!” And Jorah sat through Roggo’s half-talented vibrato until dusk fell. Such was how the journey progressed. Stories were passed, songs were sung, and on occasion, Jorah trained with the brothers. For a time, he was able to keep his mind off of Lys and the woman he had lost there. He wasn’t happy. But he wasn’t treading in the bottomless pit of despair either. Their games came to an end as they neared Dagger Lake. 

They had already passed by a flaming ship earlier that morning, and all three of the hired guards were on high alert. It was Jorah who spotted it. “STOP THE SHIP!” he commanded. The sails were immediately doused, and the anchor thrown. “Ahead, look.” Just under the water, there was a chain stretched across the river. It was spiked and obviously used to halt ships and rip their bellies open. Just as the anchor hit the water, there were shouts from either side of them. 

“Pirates,” Bobono growled, unsheathing his thin sword. 

“Someone needs to cut through that chain, or we can’t go anywhere,” Jorah said. 

Vhalaso hurried to them, looking even paler and panicked. “What do we do!? They’re upon us!” 

“Go to your room. Barricade the door. Don’t let anyone through unless it’s one of us,” Jorah told him, urging him towards his cabin. “Thoughts?” he turned to his comrades. 

“I will take care of the chain,” Roggo declared. “If I can fall one of its pylons, then it will sink, and we can sail over it.” He grabbed Bobono’s shoulder. “Fight well, brother.”

“Oh, they’ll all be dead by the time you get back here,” Bobono winked. 

Jorah was grateful for their confidence . . . he supposed. Hooks were thrown onto the sides of the ship, and he quickly unsheathed his sword. “Cut the ropes. Don’t let them climb aboard.” They were a crew of two. Two against . . . however many pirates decided their ship was a prize worth taking. Rushing to the port side, Jorah cut the rope, sending two pirates falling to the water below. They were lining up alongside the ship with rowboats—quick and with five men in each. Back and forth, he ran, cutting the ropes that appeared. Eventually, however, they started climbing the side of the ship, and he had nothing to drop on them. As he stabbed one through the head, another managed to get on board. 

Jorah wrenched his sword free and stepped back as the pirate came lunging at him. Cutlass against longsword clanged together. Jorah parried high and low, all too aware that every second he failed in killing the pirate was a second that another used to climb on board. At last he swung love and drove his sword through the pirate’s belly. Leaving him to die, he checked over at Bobono who was also fighting his first pirate. Two more came on board, and Jorah challenged them. 

One struck to the left, the other to the right. He parried both, turning his body quickly to deflect. However, one of them outmaneuvered him, and he found himself in the middle—one in front, the other behind him. Jorah circled as best he could, but they kept him trapped. Gritting his teeth, he turned and parried an attack from the back, then quickly spun and parried an attack from the other pirate. The one now behind him, however, wasted no time and pierced his side. Jorah grunted, jerking to the side further, so the sword did not pierce anything vital. 

His leg was weakened by it, however, and he slumped a little to the side. His teeth gnashed together, clutching his sword tightly. He attacked the one he was facing, but he was easily parried. Jorah stepped forward on his weaker leg and fell to the side . . . but in so doing, the other pirate—who had apparently been about to plunge his sword into his back—ended up running it through the other pirate’s belly. There was a moment where they all looked at one another shock—Jorah looking up at them from the ground. Quickly, he grabbed the surviving pirate’s ankle and pulled, tripping him into the ground as well. With a loud groan, he rolled over and broke the pirate’s neck.

Panting heavily, he felt his side twinge painfully. His hand touched there, and he came away with blood. Stumbling to his feet, he picked up his sword and faced his next opponent. The fighting seemed to drag on all afternoon, but long last, he heard a boastful singing as Roggo rejoined them. He’d never been happier to hear that bastard’s singing. The pirates were rebuffed, and they quickly donned the sails again. The anchor was yanked up, and they continued sailing past Dagger Island. 

Only once they had made it a few leagues past did Vhalaso come out from his cabin. “That was terrifying,” he squeaked. “I’m taking a horse back. I’m done with pirates.” 

Jorah cauterized his wound—after getting blearily drunk—and bandaged himself up. He rest the entire next day, and when it dawned next, they were sailing into Qohor. As soon as they arrived on the docks, Jorah knew that Qohor was a city unlike any else. The atmosphere alone was somehow . . . eerie. Goosebumps rose on his skin, and he wasn’t sure they were from the moist air. “What do you know of Qohor?” he asked Bobono, who was disembarking the ship with his things beside him. 

“Qohor? Suspicious place,” he replied. “They practice blood magic here. Spells and enchantments. I wouldn’t look anyone in the eye here, lest they cast some curse on you.” 

Jorah shivered at that. Blood magic. Westeros had strong ideas about magic like that. It was barbaric, for one. This city was ancient, too. How many had been sacrificed in that time? How much blood stained its streets and walls? He didn’t like it. He didn’t want to enter . . . but enter he did. 

After Vhalaso paid them, Jorah decided to stay around the two brothers a little longer. His purse was heavier, and he had something a bit more suitable to live on for a time. They walked through the gates, passing by soldiers with spears and round shields. The guards didn’t move an inch the entire time—their discipline obviously unquestionable. Their helmets triggered something in his memory. “Are those the Unsullied?” he inquired. 

“The best fighters in Essos. After the Braavosi, of course,” Roggo grinned. “Slaves. Eunuchs, too. An army of three thousand Unsullied protected the city of Qohor against a _Khalasar_ of fifty thousand. Ever since then, they have kept an army of Unsullied to guard their walls.” Jorah glanced at another Unsullied guard, an impressed look on his face. The eyes behind the helmet, however, were dead. As dead as all the other slaves Jorah had seen. Etched everywhere in the city was the symbol of a goat. It seemed where Volantis had its Fire God, Qohor had its . . . goat. 

The harbor opened into a large lumber yard. Men and women worked at cutting and preparing long logs for shipping. The famed trees of the Forest of Qohor. Jorah saw one yet uncut. Its trunk itself was nearly as large as the gate they had just passed through. It was at least four men abreast on one side. A part of him wanted to see the forest that this tree had come from. If they were all this large, the forest must have been an impressive sight. 

His friends were headed for the nearest inn—one with a roaring tavern. He wasn’t sure if they’d find that here. The air was heavy here. It seemed that something as frivolous as boisterous laughter might be illegal. He was eager to be away from this place. Eventually, they found an inn, and Jorah tended to his wound before sleeping with some difficulty—a goat’s head was staring at him on the wall. 

The next morning, the search for work began once more. Jorah went to the market first, curious to see what they sold in a place like Qohor. As soon as he set foot, he heard angry voices. Following the voices, he discovered a Westerosi merchant—who was quite far away from home—apologizing profusely to a group of Dothraki. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what you mean! It’s twenty Gold Dragons!” he said, then cowered when the Dothraki shouted something at him.

The other merchants, who were obviously used to working with the Dothraki, watched in silent amusement at the struggling merchant. Jorah bit his lip, then joined the argument. “They don’t use coin,” he told the merchant as he positioned himself between the merchant and the Dothraki. The dark-skinned horselords looked at him questioningly. 

_“Fin yer? Fini hash yer zalat?”_ the Dothraki in front of him said . . . or asked . . . or commanded, Jorah wasn’t sure. 

Right. This was going to be difficult. Clenching his jaw, Jorah pointed at the item in the Dothraki’s hands. “Trade,” he said. He made a motion with his hands, one of exchanging. “Trade for?” he gestured to the items on the merchant’s stall. 

The Dothraki stared at him, then looked at his companions. One whispered in his ear, nodding towards the stall. “Trade,” the Dothraki grunted, the word somehow sounding like growl in his heavy accent. He pointed to a bell on the stall. Jorah picked the bell up and placed it in the Dothraki’s hand. The Dothraki rang the bell, then smiled, pleased with the sound. He thrust the item in his hand—a bundle of some sort of animal’s skin—towards Jorah. He took it and placed it on the stall. 

The merchant shook his head. “The bell was worth more. I’m being cheated.”

“You’re getting away with your life. I’m sure that is valued higher than your precious bell,” Jorah muttered to him, a look of warning in his eyes. The merchant caught the hint and silenced himself. Turning back to the Dothraki, he nodded his head to him, and was about to walk away when the Dothraki pushed his chest. 

_“Fini yer hake?”_ the Dothraki said. Jorah stared at him, trying to make out what he was saying. The Dothraki touched his own chest. “Thirro.” He touched Jorah’s chest then. 

Oh. Name. “Ser Jorah Mormont,” Jorah replied, the title coming off in an old habit. 

“Westerosi. Jorah the Andal,” Thirro grinned. “Jorah uh . . . brave.” Or a damned fool with a death wish. _“Jadat,”_ Thirro gestured him in a beckoning manner. Jorah hesitated, then took a step with him. He followed the group of Dothraki outside of Qohor where an encampment had been set up. Hundreds of Dothraki were settled in the camp, men racing horses back and forth. Jorah was led into a large tent where a massive man was sitting, braiding his long mane of hair. 

Thirro saluted the man. _“Khal Drogo, anha asshilat Jorah the Andal Rhaesh Andahli.”_ Jorah was urged forward, and he wasn’t sure if he had just agreed to become a prisoner or what. 

The large man glanced at him, and then rose. He was even larger standing. Jorah was lucky that he came up to the Khal’s shoulder. The Khal looked him over, then gripped his shoulder. “Welcome, Jorah Andal. I Khal Drogo.”


	16. The Deal

The Dothraki were a strange people. Jorah had never met anyone like them. They were barbaric in their ways of life, and yet incredibly simplistic. They valued strength and that was all. Having left his two Braavosi friends behind, Jorah rode with Khal Drogo instead. After many attempts at communication, he had managed to learn that his barging into the bartering disagreement had been a brave thing to do. Apparently, it was lucky that they had not simply killed him for butting into a business that did not concern him. Again, Jorah wondered if he was just a willing captive amidst this nomadic people. 

But they did not keep him in chains—and he saw many others in chains—and they did not keep him from coming and going as he pleased. The Khal, it seemed, liked having someone near who could speak the Common Tongue to the merchants and slavers with whom they did business. So, Jorah rode with them and learned their tongue little-by-little. One of the Dothraki who had been a great help in this regard was named Rakharo. 

He was young and eager to bring glory to his name. His father, Jorah had learned, had been bloodrider to Khal Bharbo, Drogo’s father. When Bharbo had died, his father had killed himself as well, per was the custom of a bloodrider after his Khal had fallen. It was a brutish custom, but he supposed it made the position of bloodrider all the more significant. Rakharo oft rode alongside him, pointing at things and giving him the name of it in Dothraki until Jorah could recite it from memory. It was a difficult language to learn. The grammar wasn’t fluid, and there were many words in the Common Tongue that the Dothraki did not have a word for. The pronunciation was another beast to tackle. Jorah had found himself with a sore throat after the first few days of speaking the tongue frequently. It was guttural and harsh. 

But he was learning, and from his position, the Dothraki were a fascinating people to study. He learned that they worshiped The Great Stallion and that horses were revered. They had no lasting homes, save the ones in their holy place—Vaes Dothrak. They were riding there now to attend a wedding between a Khal who was a friend to Khal Drogo, and whatever bride the Khal had chosen for himself. Jorah had to admit that he was quite curious to witness a Dothraki wedding. He had a feeling it didn’t involve standing before a tree and wrapping hands in a silk cloth. 

They were traveling through the Dothraki Sea when the attack came. Jorah was reciting Dothraki to Rakharo when cries ahead of them made them halt their horses. _“Fini?” (What?)_ Jorah questioned. The grass—as tall as his head—seemed to move all around them. Rakharo pulled out his arakh and gripped his reins tightly. Jorah pulled out his sword as well. 

_“GWE!” (Here! Let’s go! Go!”)_ shouted a Dothraki as he rode past them. 

_“Kisha eth lajat!” (We must fight!)_ Rakharo cried. Lajat. Fight. Jorah looked around, but who were they fighting? And then he saw it. It wasn’t a who . . . it was a what. A large white lion was racing down the path. Dothraki were urging their horses out of the way of its violent charge. Everywhere around him, Jorah heard shouts of, _“Hrakkar! Ogat!” (Hrakkar! Kill!)_

He knew the word for kill, Hrakkar could only be the large roaring beat currently headed his way. His horse reared, nearly making him lose his seat. Jorah clutched on with his legs and tried to urge the horse forward. As soon as his hooves met the ground, Jorah kicked his heels into his flanks and galloped into the tall grass. The lion went roaring past, intent on some other slow prey. Jorah was circling back when he heard another horse whinny. 

Thirro grinned when he saw him, and he felt a moment of relief as well. _“Hrakkar_ d—AHHHHHHHHH!” It happened in a second. One moment, Thirro was there, the next, a white streak launched itself over the horse and took Thirro down. Splattered everywhere, even landing on Jorah, though he was at least five feet away from the man. Thirro’s death cries ended quickly, only the sound of crunching bone remained. Jorah turned his horse around and sped away from the sounds. 

Panic was threatening to ripple from his surface. They were sitting targets in the tall grass—unable to see the predators hunting them. And Thirro . . . he may not have been as close to Thirro as he was becoming Rakharo, but Thirro had been the one to introduce him to the Dothraki. The man had a wife and two daughters. A nearby roar stopped his grief, and he focused on the chaos around him. 

Gripping his sword tightly, he angled his horse, making him side-step a little. The grass surrounded him, ticking his face and making it difficult to see. There was another roar to his right, close enough that it sent his horse into a frenzy. He bucked again, and this time Jorah did not have the chance to hold himself securely. He fell onto his back, grunting and momentarily losing the breath in his lungs. His horse raced off, leaving a faint path behind of smooshed grass. “Damn it,” he grunted, pushing himself to his feet. 

His sword had landed next to him, and he picked it up immediately. The roaring had turned into a low-rumbled growl. It practically vibrated the air. Jorah turned towards the sound, pointing his sword in front of him, in the two horn guard stance. Suddenly, as quick as a blink, the sound was behind him instead. Jorah quickly turned, his ears straining for the slightest change in sound. It was difficult to focus—all around him men were shouting and screaming. It must have been a pride of Hrakkar, for he could hear other roars as well. 

A flash of white from the corner of his eye made him spin again. Was it one? Two? Fear crept into his bones. Fighting man was one thing . . . this beast was intelligent and deadly. He refused to end his story in the belly of a lion. The tiniest snap of a twig behind him had him whirl around just in time. A Hrakkar was in mid-leap, soaring right at him. Gasping, Jorah dug his heels into the ground and drove his sword up. There was a high-pitched yowling as his sword split sinew and bone.

The heavy weight of the lion crashed down on him, and he fell to the ground underneath it. The Hrakkar tried to tug on his sword, but it was already near death. It gave a few pulses and then rested entirely on him. Jorah released a sharp breath, suffocating under the weight of the animal. He couldn’t expand his lungs to breathe. Desperately, he clawed at the grass and dirt, dragging himself out from under the lion. With a few tugs, he escaped and breathed in sharply. Kicking the rest of his way out, he got back to his feet and wrenched his sword free from the Hrakkar. 

The onslaught was still happening. Somewhere, he could hear Drogo’s loud, booming voice ordering his men. With thoughts only of finding his horse and having some small advantage, he took off down the faint path his horse had left behind. Jorah knew he wasn’t alone either. Of the caught flashes of white darting by. Men still screamed to his left and right as they were taken down. A few Dothraki rode in front of him, chasing down a Hrakkar and screaming in bloodfury. He found his horse close to the path, kicking nervously. 

Dead horses and Dothraki were strewn on and off the path, their innards spilling out of them. The Hrakkar intended to feast. Soothing his horse, Jorah mounted again and rushed after the sound of Drogo’s voice. If there was to be an organized fight, it would be near the Khal. Jorah found him and his bloodriders making sweeping arcs through the grass, their arakhs stained with blood. Drogo was stained with blood, too, and even from his distance, Jorah could see the man’s eyes were wild with bloodlust. Those eyes, however, did not see the Hrakkar lining up behind him. 

“DROGO!” Jorah shouted, kicking his horse forward. “BEHIND YOU!” he lacked the words, but he hoped his pointing was clear. Whether Drogo heard him and did not understand, or he did not hear him at all, Jorah wasn’t sure, but the Khal kept his charge going, chasing down a Hrakkar in front of him. Jorah grit his teeth and held his sword out. His horse teetered a little in his line towards the lion, obviously not wanting to get near the beast, but Jorah kept his hand sturdy on the reins. Closer . . . almost there . . . 

The Hrakkar was just about to leap onto Drogo’s back when Jorah raced in from the side and swung his sword down in a wide arc. Holding tightly onto the hilt of his sword, he felt the blade hit the hard flesh and bone. Even though his arm was nearly pulled out of its socket, he groaned—or was it a growl?—and held on, following through until his sword had separated head from body. The Hrakkar fell dead to the ground. Jorah turned just in time to see Drogo launch himself from his horse and onto the back of the Hrakkar he had been chasing. 

The ferocious Khal tackled him to the ground and slit his throat open with his arakh. With the cheering of his bloodriders, the other lions were either killed or fled with what carcasses they could carry. The Dothraki regrouped around their Khal. Despite having lost quite a few people, they did not seem too terribly upset. Instead, they laughed at their wounds and showed off the severed heads of their trophies. Jorah was happy to see that Rakharo had survived the ambush. 

_“Jorah Andahli. Yer savidosalat anna. Yer okeo.” (Jorah the Andal. You protected me. You are a friend.)_ Drogo gripped Jorah’s shoulder and squeezed it. The power in that hand was frightening. The Khal did not need his arakh to kill him if he wanted to. Not all too clear on what Drogo had said, Jorah thought the appropriate response was to nod his head. Drogo nodded back, then turned to his people. _“Ajjalan! Kisha vitteyqoyi!” (Tonight! We feast!)_ The Dothraki cheered at that, splitting off to make preparations. Once they were clear of the Dothraki Sea—at least out of the tall grass—they camped. 

Jorah was seated beside the Khal that night—a place of honor. The Khal himself taught him more words of Dothraki, and Jorah learned and listened with extreme patience and interest. If he had learned anything that day, it was not to piss off the Khal. Pit against him or a Hrakkar, he’d take the lion any day. They feasted heavily. The ambush had given them plenty of meat. The taste of Hrakkar was a little too tough for Jorah’s preferences. The lions were all near lean muscle. Apparently, his prowess in battle against the lions had spread. He felt more welcomed than ever by the Dothraki. A few women even danced in front of him, obviously attempting to lure him to their bed, but jealous eyes followed these women, and Jorah was anxious to remain just a guest among them—a welcome guest. 

So, he went to his tent alone that night—though perhaps begrudgingly so. His heart may have still been torn and bleeding, but his body was prepared to find refuge in another. His ex-wife seemed to be quite happy with giving her body to another, after all. That night, he slept soundly . . . save for whenever a distant roar startled him from his sleep. 

Days passed until they reached the statues of proudly rearing stallions—the gate to Vaes Dothrak. Even here, there was hardly anything one would call a road. However, there were buildings of stone, clay and straw. None were larger than the one constructed in the middle of the village. Just passed the gate, two large warehouses waited them with grim-looking Dothraki. Rakharo rode up to his side. “No _vov.”_

Jorah stared at him. Rakharo patted his arakh, which he was handing to one of the grim-looking Dothraki. “Ah, weapons,” Jorah said. 

“Weapons,” Rakharo repeated. “No weapons.” Jorah felt a little uncomfortable at giving up the only means he had of protecting himself if he came across a drunken and excitable horselord. Rakharo, sensing his hesitance, said slowly, “no . . . ah . . . _qovvolat qoy (shed blood).”_ Rakharo mimicked killing someone, then spread his hands outwards. 

“No killing here,” Jorah. Well, that was a fine law. He just hoped they followed it. Reluctantly, he handed one of the Dothraki his blade and dagger. Once he was free of weapons, he was able to ride forward and join the khalasar as they suddenly came upon a road—a single road—that led into the center of the village. They were engulfed in the buildings not long after. There were no walls that protected the village or gave it its boundaries. The road they rode upon cut straight the village, leading towards the large mountain that loomed over the village. Buildings were built on either side of this road, and beyond that, they were constructed in an almost thoughtless manner to district and private space. Jorah shouldn’t have been surprised by this—the Dothraki didn’t really understand the concept of privacy. 

Though the village was quite crowded due to the wedding, Jorah could see that a great deal of the buildings were uninhabited, at least currently. Also, the village boasted more slaves than Dothraki. They walked to and fro whereas the Dothraki rode their horses. Khal Drogo led them right to the large building in the center of the village and dismounted. The others followed suit, and Jorah was quick to copy. He looked curiously over at Rakharo, who had a reverent look on his face. Examining the others faces as well, Jorah saw similar expressions of respect and reverence. Was this a holy place? 

_“Dosh khaleen,”_ Rakharo said to him. _“Khaleesi she driv Khal.” (Wife of dead Khal)._ He used his hands for words until Jorah understood what he was saying. The widows of past Khals then. He hadn’t thought about what might happen to the wife of a Khal after he had died. He assumed they were either killed by the victorious _khalasar_ or were enslaved. He realized that he was too quick to judge the barbarity of the Dothraki people. They showed respect to the women who had once led them alongside their Khal . . . it was more than could be said of the Westerosi tradition of their treatment of former Queens. 

They watched as the doors opened and a group of women came out. Some were old, some were young. The eldest approached Khal Drogo who bowed his head to them respectfully, and then presented them with the skins of the Hrakkar they had killed as well as gifts of gold and silver. The head of the _dosh khaleen_ accepted them and kissed the end of Drogo’s braid. With the ceremony over, the widows returned into their home and Drogo gave a wave to his _khalasar._ They disbanded, seeking places to sleep and rest in the homes that were available. 

Rather eager to have a stone ceiling over his head again, Jorah joined Rakharo in claiming a home for themselves. A few others joined them, though each had their own room. Stretching himself out on the bed, he sighed in relief. As much as he enjoyed the Dothraki—and as much as he enjoyed learning their language and about them—he was going to need some time in civilization before long. He rested there a day, and it was at the early dawning of the next day that the wedding took place. 

The Khal who was getting married painted himself in black ink—across his face and chest—making him look quite feral. His bride, also of Dothraki stock, wore similar ink. Jorah dressed in his fine wool for the ceremony, wanting to be respectful. He sat near the back and watched as men presented gifts to the bride—a whip, bow and arakh—which she refused and were instead given to her husband. A tradition, he learned. It was also tradition for the wedding last the entire day. 

Feasting occurred immediately—and as did the drinking. The Dothraki didn’t seem keen to slow down either. Jorah paced himself, but even then, by the time the sun started to go down, he was thoroughly drunk. He knew he was drunk because he was dancing—and he did not dance. Nor was he now really, either. If anything, he was stumbling to a rhythm. The woman he was dancing with, however, seemed to be doing enough dancing for the both of them. She kept pressing herself against him in a delicious manner that had his blood pumping in seconds. 

Despite the fact that his world was spinning, Jorah heard shouting nearby. Peering blearily past the grinding body against him, he saw two Dothraki men shoving one another as a woman clad in a crimson veil watched them. The two men were dragged off from the site—no doubt outside of Vaes Dothrak where they could shed one another’s blood. There was cheering as they passed, and the woman with the crimson veil merely found another man to dance with while the others fought over her. Noticing that the woman he was dancing with also had a crimson veil, Jorah had the good enough sense to extricate himself. 

Just in time, too, for a horselord snatched her up and pushed her to the ground. To his astonishment, they started to fuck in the dirt for all to see. Tearing his gaze away, Jorah came out of his own dizzy head to find that they weren’t the only ones. Dusk had fallen, and even the Khal was now burying himself inside of his wife. Did all Dothraki weddings end in an orgy? It certainly sounded like it. Grabbing another horn of . . . what had Rakharo said this was? . . . fermented mare’s milk? Whatever it was, the taste was enough to kill his taste buds, but it kicked him like a mule. 

Taking a swig, he stumbled towards his tent. As enticing as the thought of fucking was, he could barely see straight. Jorah tripped over some bags on the ground, falling into the dirt with a hard grunt. Hearing low chuckling, he looked up to see Khal Drogo being pulled into a building by two women. Well, at least the Khal was going to have a nice evening. Getting back to his feet, Jorah staggered back to the building that he had claimed as his own—after getting lost for a time, of course. By the time he found his bed, he was passing out before his head even hit the pillow. 

Two sensations greeted him when he woke the next day. The first was the more prevalent. His head was pounding something awful. Groaning, he clutched at his temples, burying his eyes in his palm and refusing to look towards the daylight. “Never again,” he grunted, feeling bile rise up in his throat. Swallowing it down with some water, he rolled on his side and came to the second sensation.

_There was a piece of parchment in his hand. When had that gotten there? Sluggishly, he opened the small scroll and read a single line:  
‘Missing home? Meet me in the Western Market to discuss making your prayers a reality. Come alone.   
-I.M.’_

It took a few passes for the message to click in his mind. Home? Who could possibly know he was all the way out here? The initials meant nothing to him. Still, the single word struck such a chord of desperate longing in his heart, he found himself washing up and dressing despite his body’s complaints. Donning his wool once more, he felt the heat of the day quite keenly. He needed a new shirt—something light and more breathable. Taking along his pouch of coins, he slowly made his way out of the building.

It was quiet. Dothraki who had not managed to make it back home were still passed out on the ground. Some were even naked. Slaves moved to and fro, cleaning and tending to the horses whilst their owners slept off their hangovers. Jorah wished he was still sleeping. The sun was far too bright, and he felt might vomit at any moment. Gritting his teeth, he headed for the Western Market—which was alive and thriving. 

Those from the Free Cities called the Western Market their home. He saw familiar trinkets and goods for sale from Volantis and Braavos. There was a line of Lysian pleasure slaves for sale as well. Jorah wasn’t sure who he was supposed to be looking for. If this ‘IM’ knew he was here, he figured he or she would approach him. So, he went in search of clothing stalls. Much of the dress was Essosian, and he wanted something familiar to home. Stopping at stall which sold tunics, his eye was caught by a bright yellow shirt. 

“Ah, the color pleases the sir, no?” the merchant asked, taking the shirt and pressing it against Jorah’s body. “And it is a perfect size!” Jorah had to admit that such a color was unused to him. He had wanted bright . . . and this material seemed thinner than the wool he was currently wearing. After little deliberation, Jorah pressed coin into the merchant’s hand and took the shirt. Just as he was turning around, he nearly ran into a large—cloaked man. 

“Excellent purchase. The color will really bring out your eyes,” the man said. 

Jorah lifted his chin, not fooled for a second. “I.M, I presume.”

“Just so,” the man bowed his head. “Come. There are too many eyes and ears here.” The hooded, portly, man led Jorah down one of the alleys, away from the market. Wishing more than ever that he had his sword, Jorah kept his ears and eyes pricked for the slightest sound or twitch of foul play. Though he was sure he could run circles around this mysterious stranger, all he needed to do was sit on Jorah’s chest for a few minutes to properly suffocate him. They walked down the winding alleys, the buildings becoming almost a labyrinth in the unplanned and disorienting layout they were in. Distantly, Jorah could still hear the market, but he had no idea where they were. 

“This shall do,” the figure said, and he pushed his hood back to reveal himself. A fat face—with at least four chins—peered up at him. Blond hair parted in the middle somehow managed to grow long enough to cup his fat cheeks. The most absurd of all, however, was the oiled forked beard that the man stroked in a rather suggestive manner. “Illyrio Mopatis, at your service,” he bowed—as much as he could bow—to Jorah. “No need to tell me your name, Ser Jorah Mormont. My friend has had his eyes on you since you landed in Lys.”

That bothered Jorah a great deal. Who had been watching him and for what purpose? “I am sorry that you lost so much . . . love for a woman does tend to make fools of us. I, myself, denied the wishes of a Prince for a woman. I could have been royalty—or rubbed elbows with the like—but instead I followed my heart. So, really, I quite understand the pain. We wound ourselves deeply for those they love.” Jorah said nothing through this. He did not know this man, and he hardly doubted that he knew exactly how Jorah had felt. “But that is in the past now, of course,” the man continued. “You’re here because of the gift I can offer you.”

“A pardon,” Jorah spoke, at last. “How can you get me one?”

“That friend I mentioned before . . . He has the King’s ear. A little whisper from him, and you receive your royal pardon.” 

Jorah clenched his jaw. “Your price?” 

“Simple, really,” Illyrio tapped his fingers together. “In a few years, when the time is right, we’re going to have a lovely bride available. When that time comes, a messenger will find his way to you. You must tell your dear friend Khal Drogo about the benefits of marrying this bride. Bring him to Pentos and let him see her for himself . . . and when they marry—for I’m quite sure they will, she’s a lovely creature—you will . . . stay in touch. Not with me, no. By that point, you’ll be writing to our mutual friend. Where they go . . . any changes in their health . . . and so on.”

His arms crossed over his chest. “You wish me to spy on this bride,” he said. 

“And her brother,” Illyrio added. “And that is all. Hardly any work, really. In time, your pardon will come, and then you can return to your home. You must be missing it so. I’ve only been away from Pentos for a few months, and already, my heart longs for it.” He gave Jorah a sympathetic look. “Wrenched from your home as you were, I can only imagine how terrible it must feel for you to be away.”

He was right on that account. More and more, Jorah found himself aching for the cool summers and rough natures of his cousins. Of the food and songs and smells. What was he doing here? So far from home? His lips pressed into a firm line as he considered the job. It seemed harmless enough . . . easy enough. Why someone wanted to spy on a bride and her brother was beyond him—nor did it concern him. It was certainly easier than he thought the price would be. Illyrio’s eyes gleamed, sensing victory as the exiled knight relaxed his stature. “A few years, you said?”

Illyrio nodded. “Yes, yes. The girl must bleed first. But do not forget. We certainly won’t. Shall I be able to count on you, Ser Jorah?” 

The man extended a fat hand with chubby fingers adorned with all sorts of gems. Jorah’s stomach roiled at the thought of touching that hand. It had ‘merchant prince’ written all over it. And hadn’t he learned that all merchant princes were snakes? Feeling as though he was selling his soul, Jorah slowly extended his hand and gripped Illyrio’s, giving it a firm shake. “Aye. I will answer the call.” Illyrio returned his shake, positively glowing at this news. Jorah released his hand quickly, resisting the urge to wipe his hand on his gambeson. Mopatis bowed, and then put his hood back on, preparing to leave. Curiosity overtook him suddenly, and he called out, “Mopatis.” The man paused. “What is the bride’s name?”

Illyrio turned to him, but Jorah couldn’t make out his face. His voice, however, came out in a low purr. “Why . . . her name is Daenerys Targaryen.”


	17. Pentos

It was the year 298 AC. Jorah was unaware of how much time had passed until he saw the year neatly scrawled at the top of a parchment. There was only one sentence on the missive. 

_‘It is time. –I.M.’_

Years had passed since he’d had the mysterious conversation with the merchant prince Illyrio Mopatis and sold his soul. A part of him had wondered if the missive would ever come. A part of him regretted that it did. The rest was eager. At last, he had a chance to return home. His time in Essos had been one adventure after the next. He’d learned a great deal about the Dothraki and had rode with some of the other _khalasars_ that were friendlier to Khal Drogo’s band. During that time, he had picked up their language entirely and had ridden as far east as to the Red Waste. 

Fate, it seemed, favored this new mission, for he had just returned to Khal Drogo’s _khalasar._ Sitting in his tent, he scratched through his scruffy beard, contemplating how best to broach the subject to the Khal. It was true that it was time he married, but the general belief was that he would marry another Dothraki girl. There were many who were trying to catch his eye. After all, Khal Drogo’s _khalasar_ had increased rapidly in number over the past few years. Even now, Jorah was astounded by the numbers he saw. No other Khal commanded quite so many horselords. 

With some vague idea in his head about how he was going to approach the subject, Jorah left his tent and walked over to the Khal. The beast of a man was sharpening his arakh when Jorah arrived. He smiled at him, and Jorah bowed his head respectfully. _“Khal Drogo, anha zigerelat astolat ma shafka.”(Khal Drogo, I need to speak with you.)_ Drogo nodded at him. _“Haze voj fin chiorikem ha Khal. Lain ma ershe qoy. Me viqaferat shafka jadat tihat mae majin vokkerat hash mae oakah sajat.” (There is a man who has a wife for a Khal. Beautiful with a royal bloodline. He begs you to come see her and decide if she is worthy a mount.)_

Surprise crossed Drogo’s face at Jorah’s proposition. The bear watched the Dothraki consider his strange request. Leaning forward, Drogo asked, _“Finne?” (Where?)_

A smile touched Jorah’s lips. “Pentos.” 

In the end, Jorah was unsure why Drogo agreed to see this mysterious bride. Perhaps it was simply because of the mystery. Perhaps he was bored and desired to dwell near a city for a time. Perhaps someone owed him tribute in Pentos. Whatever the reason, when morning came the next day, the _khalasar_ packed and turned west for Pentos. 

The entire journey was spent with Khal’s bloodriders and kos protesting and questioning Drogo’s choice. The Khal was patient with this insubordination for a time, before he punched one of his kos, knocking him right off of his horse. The questioning stopped after that, and only in hushed tones was the matter discussed further. According to Rakharo, the Dothraki did not understand why the Khal was interested in a Westerosi whore. If he wanted something exotic, why not take one of the bed-slaves from Asshai or the mysterious women from Sothoryos. It was becoming clear to Jorah, that the Dothraki thought the Westerosi women were weak. If only they knew his cousins and Aunt. 

After a few months, they finally arrived in Pentos. Drogo led them immediately to his manse. It was large, nearly a palace in itself. It contained nine towers, the manse made of brick which was covered in pale ivy. The manse itself sat on the Bay of Pentos. It was a home fit for a King. No wonder the magisters of Pentos had given it to Drogo in the hopes of winning his favor . . . and keeping him from ransacking the city. Jorah dismounted and joined the others inside. Drogo had chosen to decorate his home with the trophies of all his past victories. 

In one room rested the scalped braids of Dothraki warriors he had killed in battle. In another, he found an assortment of weapons and shields. In a more heavily guarded area, Jorah found precious gems and gold bars. Drogo was an incredibly rich man. It was almost astounding the wealth he had in this manse alone. Joining them in the dining hall, Jorah saw the familiar skin of a white lion stretched above a large fireplace. In front of the fireplace was the seat of honor, in which Drogo sat drinking from a flagon. 

_“Anha astolat ma Illyrio Mopatis ma nesat mae she yeri jadolat.”(I will speak with Illyrio Mopatis and tell him of your arrival.)_ Jorah received a nod from the imposing Khal, and he swept from the manse to begin the negotiations. He was hopeful that his part from here on out was subtle. This was near to politics, and he had abhorred that part of being a Lord. Pentos was a large and flourishing city . . . and a smelly one, at that. Every person seemed to wear a certain perfume. It reminded him of the oppressive odor awaiting him in the form of Mopatis. 

The scent of spice was also poignant. Since Pentos was built on the coast, the city flourished with trade. It’s close proximity to Westeros aided in this wealth. The rich aroma was more pronounced near the harbor and markets. As Jorah ventured his way further into the city, where large manses walled off entire sections, the scent dimmed. He kept a close hand on his sword. Cutpurses ran rampant here. By the time he reached Illyrio’s manse, Jorah had noticed that those he had passed by had only increased in size and grandeur. It was a fine thing to be a magister, apparently. 

He was not stopped at the gate like he thought he might be. Instead, the guard glanced at him once and nodded for him to enter. It seemed he was expected. Walking through the gate, Jorah ran an eye over the splendorous garden he had entered. Flowers and fountains were crammed between the space from the wall to the house. A desperate attempt to demonstrate wealth. To the Pentoshi, he imagined that such a display was awe-inspiring. To Jorah, he saw wasted space. 

Walking along the path through the garden, Jorah had just reached the small marble steps that led to the front door when he was stopped by a voice. “Ser Jorah! My friend! Welcome! I received your raven not but two days ago!” Illyrio Mopatis. Jorah turned and found the large man waddling up to him from the garden. A wonder that he had not seen him. “When I heard word that Khal Drogo had returned to his manse, I started preparations immediately. You have come with good news, I take it?”

“Aye,” Jorah confirmed, turning to the man completely and running an eye over him. The magister wore free-flowing robes instead of a hood. Sweat-stains clung to his pits and chest. Yet, the magister was all smiles and grace. Meeting him now was no less pleasant than meeting him in an alley. At least there was a strong enough breeze to keep the smell of him away. “Khal Drogo has agreed to see the bride, but he has not made a final answer as to whether he intends to marry her or not.”

Illyrio made a clicking noise with his tongue. “Of course he intends to marry her. He rode all this way. And Drogo is not like your common Dothraki. He’s intelligent. Once he sees the bride and understands who she is, he’ll snap her up in a second.” Jorah was silent, his lips pressing together. There was no joy in this matter for him. The quicker he could rid himself of it, the better. Illyrio seemed to sense his darkened mood, for his smile only became wider—bracing. “It’s been quite hot, has it not? I do envy those winters the North always boasts about in such seasons. When you return there, you’ll have to bottle some of that winter up and send it to me, eh?” Jorah’s lips only pressed hard together—a brood darkening his features. “Well, never you mind. I’ll send a messenger to Khal Drogo. We shall have a dinner tonight. The two parties shall meet, and we shall see how fortune favors us. In the meantime, I have someone for you to meet.”

Jorah lifted an eyebrow, wincing lightly when the magister placed his hand on his shoulder to guide him. They did walk inside of the house, instead they took the porch that ran along to the back of the house where an even larger garden awaited them. This one was made with gentler care. More ornate fountains interrupted the growth, but the true majesty rested in the view. The garden overlooked the blue water of the Narrow Sea. The cries of gulls washed over distantly, and the sound invoked such a strong longing in him. That was a sound he knew well. He had awakened to those cries. 

“A word of caution, my friend,” Illyrio dropped his voice as they walked into the garden. “The prince is . . . he has a bit of a temper . . . and an ego to match it. Such is the way princes are, I’m afraid. It would do best to appease him and give him the deferential treatment he deserves. Winning his loyalty will only further make your duty easier. He is . . . most eager . . . to have a knight of his own. Your title should aid you in forging a tight bond with him.” Jorah stared down at the magister. Was he asking him to bootlick? Gods, this job was becoming more and more costly the longer he was a part of it. 

A clanging of steel against steel met his ears before they found the one Jorah was to meet—the prince. He was unmistakable. Silver hair and bright purple eyes. Jorah thought he looked quite out of place here. The Targaryens were dead. Yet, here one lived. The prince was sparring with a servant, the both of them training with dull blades. Jorah watched the servant make a calculated wrong step, and the prince’s blow landed squarely on the servant’s arm, making him drop his sword. The prince grinned and pointed his sword at the servant’s chest. “You’re dead,” the prince proclaimed. 

“Well done, Your Grace!” Illyrio cried joyously, applauding. “You fight as well as your brother! A true dragon’s might!” This pleased the prince, who gave a smug smile and accepted the help of those removing his training wear. Jorah felt ill. “Wouldn’t you say so, Ser Jorah?” Illyrio asked, turning the attention to him.

Bloody Gods . . . “Aye,” Jorah said slowly, even though he had seen the fault in the prince’s own form. “A true warrior in the making.” That would have to do. 

Illyrio moved on quickly, not wanting to leave it to chance that Jorah’s words were less than ego-stroking. “And you can count on this man’s eye. He served in two wars. With your father’s forces during Robert’s Rebellion, and then against the cowardly Krakens during the Greyjoy Rebellion,” Mopatis said. Jorah glanced at him. He had fought _for_ the Targaryens? The lie was making him itchy. “A true knight—though exiled from the same King who butchered your family.” The prince frowned at that, giving Jorah a measured look. “Allow me to present Ser Jorah Mormont, Your Grace. Ser Jorah,” Illyrio turned to him now. “You have the honor of standing before the last Targaryen prince . . . Viserys Targaryen.”

Home was worth it. He had to remind himself of that. Home was worth every lie and discomfort. Bowing to the prince, Jorah declared, “I am honored and humbled to stand before such a great name again, Your Grace. I hope you will permit me into your service, to obey any order you may give and protect you with my life.” Illyrio’s smile was easier now, he must have done well. Indeed, for when he straightened, the prince was smiling as well. 

“I have not had a knight in my service since Ser Darry passed away,” Viserys mused aloud. “Your wish is granted, Ser Jorah. Serve me well, and when I take back my throne, I shall see that you are amply rewarded for your loyal service.” This promise surprised him. Was this Illyrio’s game? To aid Viserys to the throne? Then why did he insist on marrying Viserys’ daughter to Khal Drogo? The Dothraki did not cross the ‘poison water’ as they called it. Was he, perhaps then, preventing Viserys from seeking the throne? Jorah glanced at the magister, but the man was as telling as a stone wall. Perhaps even less so. 

Ser Jorah bowed again, and Illyrio excused them from the prince’s presence. Once they were safely from earshot, the magister grinned up at him. “You see? He likes you already. I thought he might. Every broken prince enjoys the thought of being served and having an army of knights to fight their battles and bring them glory.”

“He believes he is going to return to Westeros. To the Iron Throne,” Jorah interrupted, not having paid attention to what Mopatis was saying. “What folly is this?”

Illyrio’s many chins lifted into a haughty expression. “A game far larger than the likes of you can understand, Ser Knight. Worry not. Our world shall be made better by it. You know your orders. Follow them. And then you can go home and never worry about dragons and spiders and thrones again.” Jorah felt the acid in his stomach building. Such oily schemes did not settle well for Northerners. Illyrio patted his shoulder again. “Now, return to your horselord. And remember the part you’re playing.”

By the time he returned to Drogo’s manse, the Dothraki were preparing for a feast. They intended to host the bride’s family and retinue for a dinner. Jorah spoke to the Khal, coaching him as he could about what to expect with a bride from Westeros. Though the princess had only been in Westeros for a short time. From then, he wasn’t sure where she and her brother had been hiding. To entice the Khal, he told him stories of the great dragons and their riders of the Targaryens of old. Drogo and his bloodriders made their quips about their horses fucking said dragons and riding circles around them until the dragons became so dizzied, they fell straight from the sky. 

The atmosphere remained jovial and thoroughly masculine until the sun set and the nighttime feast began. Drogo had decided to hold it outside in his own gardens. Tables were laid out with freshly—cooked meats and fine wines. The Dothraki who he had deemed important enough to be present were helping themselves to the wine primarily. A few other Khals had joined as well, if not friends of Drogo’s, allies. Men he was not familiar with also attended. Bravos and sellswords traded stories and showed off scars from skirmishes. He did not know them, but Drogo greeted them as warmly as he did the Khals. It was a feast solely for men, he also noticed. There were no dancers. No female servants. Tonight, the only female to be present, would be the supposed _Khaleesi_ herself. 

Wearing his formal green wool with his family’s emblem etched on the front, Jorah was relaxing in his own solitude when movement near the entrance to the gardens caught his eye. Illyrio had arrived . . . along with two silver-haired guests at his sides. The prince he saw first—tall and important-looking. Beside him stood the princess. Jorah rested his shoulder against a marble pillar that sat in the garden, leaning against it as he examined her. 

Daenerys Targaryen was small. If she were to stand before him, he doubted she’d even reach his chest. She looked quite young . . . she could not be more than thirteen years of age. From what he could see of her, she was silver made flesh. Pale skin and paler hair made her seem to be illuminated when the moon touched her. Her eyes were darting around nervously, and she walked with purpose, though he saw the strain in her shoulders. The poor girl was scared. This marriage business had obviously not been her idea—when was it ever?—and the large brown-skinned men around them did not seem to comfort her any. The Dothraki were a wild-looking bunch, he knew. They had the lifestyle to match their looks, too. He wondered where she had been kept to avoid such contact with these people. 

The dress she wore was a light purple . . . but the fabric was sheer enough to practically show her entire body. From his distance, he was not able to make out detail, but she was adorned in a manner that a sheep might be for the slaughter. They were talking amongst each other, though Jorah was too far—and the party too loud—for him to hear what they were saying. Illyrio eventually parted from them and approached Drogo. Ahh, here it was. The fate of the poor girl was to be decided at last. Jorah brought his wine glass to his lips, taking another sip. He was enjoying the feast, himself. Particularly because of the wine. It was uncommon a drink when riding throughout Essos with the Dothraki. They preferred their mare’s milk and it was readily abundant with their livestock constantly around them. 

As Illyrio spoke with Drogo, his gaze returned to the princess. Her brother was whispering in her ear, and she seemed panicked. Her entire body language was screaming that she wanted to run. Her plight moved him. He had not wanted to marry his first wife either. Though his own experience had been the simpler one. He was the dominant one, and he had treated his wife gently. Drogo was not the kind to take her concerns and well-being into consideration. It simply wasn’t the Dothraki way. It’d be a wonder if the girl survived the bedding. 

Her brother said something to her that made her straighten and cling to whatever strength she possessed. The reason was walking to her now. Jorah watched as Illyrio introduced Drogo to the princess. She spoke. He did not. The feast continued around them, not bothering to quiet for the life-altering moment occurring. Jorah could not see Drogo’s face, but the man’s body was stiff . . . until he gave a single nod, and then turned away and returned to his bloodriders. Illyrio was all smiles though the prince looked confused. It was done then. Drogo had agreed to take her as his wife. 

The magister waved him over, and he gulped down the last of his wine. He needed the aid for sharing that man’s company twice in one day. “Ser Jorah,” Illyrio greeted him as if they were old friends. “Such good news. Khal Drogo has agreed to marry our princess. This is a historic moment!” 

“Indeed.” Viserys looked pleased. “With Khal Drogo’s army, I can reunite with the people loyal to me in Westeros. Within a year, I will slay the Usurper and reclaim the throne.” 

Ser Jorah glanced at the princess at her brother’s claim. She did not seem to have any feelings about it. Or perhaps she was still shocked at her future. “When the time comes,” Jorah said finally, looking back at the prince, “you can count on my sword to be the first in battle.” 

Viserys smiled proudly, rolling on the balls of his feet. “You are in my service now, Ser Jorah. You no longer need to live such a primitive way of life with the Dothraki. Please, stay with us this night. I will likely have need of you in the morning,” the prince told him. 

“As you wish, Your Grace,” Jorah bowed his head to him. His gaze moved to the princess again, who had yet to speak. “Perhaps the princess would like some wine? I find it strengthens for any occasion.” 

At last, she blinked and looked up at him. Jorah found she possessed violet eyes as well. He’d never seen such a color . . . or such a sadness held within. “Thank-you . . . Ser Jorah, was it?”

“Aye,” Jorah bowed his head to her. “Ser Jorah Mormont of Bear Island.”

Recognition flashed in her face. “You’re from Westeros.” This seemed to please her. “Thank-you, Ser Jorah Mormont of Bear Island. I will try some wine, provided my brother thinks it wise.” Viserys nodded, already glancing at some of the bottles himself. She moved away from him then, and he noticed that the very cadence with which she walked seemed to be . . . other-worldly . . . as if the ground she walked upon was not the same as his. 

Once both siblings had left to mingle with the crowd, Illyrio remained at his side and murmured, “isn’t she beautiful? I had half-a-mind to marry her myself. But alas. The price we pay for guaranteed prestige and wealth for life.” Mopatis gave a quick grin and jiggled his way into the feast, making quick work of grabbing some food and gesturing wildly in his enthusiastic greetings of ‘old’ friends. Something about his words had touched a nerve in him. Which was why, as the feast ended, Jorah did not immediately go to bed as many of the other drunk guests did. 

Instead, he lingered long in the halls. Drogo had made guest bedrooms for the princess and her guests. The wedding was to be held tomorrow morning. Per Dothraki custom, it would last well into the night. Already, he could hear slaves and servants taking extra food and tables and chairs from the garden and into wagons. The wedding itself, he had learned at the feast, would take place in a field just outside of Pentos. It was likely the only place Drogo could fit his entire _khalasar._

As such, Jorah found himself restless despite the long day and night. Chewing an apple, he meandered through the halls of Drogo’s manse, nodding to a guard—Dothraki and Unsullied—as he passed by. He did not expect to find another nightwalker . . . but the soft padding of feet told him otherwise. There was a shadow—large—quickly cast in a corner, and he frowned, following it. 

The shadow stole towards the section where the princess and prince were resting. Jorah reached for his dagger at his back and ducked behind a corner. Peeking around slowly, he saw . . . a fat outline—an outline he knew well. “It’s late for social visits, magister,” he spoke, his voice a low rumble as he moved to stand in the hall. The magister jumped and turned to him. Jorah was surprised that such soft footsteps could come from the large man before him. The man was even more a mystery to him now. 

“Ser Jorah. I was . . . merely . . . I thought I might ensure the princess did not need anything,” Illyrio said, looking surprisingly startled and guilty. Jorah glanced down and saw the tell-tale erection pressing against the magister’s silks. 

“I assure you, she does not need that,” Jorah said, and there was a warning in his tone that had Illyrio standing taller. Jorah’s hand removed from his dagger, and he bit into his apple instead, looking—for all intents and purposes—quite unbothered. “I do not think the Khal would appreciate a wife who was promised a virgin . . . only to find that she was not so. I imagine that the man who sold her would pay a hefty price for such a slight.” He bit into his apple again, chewing and swallowing. And he did not think the princess would appreciate being raped the night before her wedding either. 

Illyrio turned away from the princess’ door completely, albeit begrudgingly. “As I said. I only wished to ensure her comfort.”

Jorah gave a nod, the look in his eyes making it quite clear that he was not buying his story. “It’s time you returned to your bed, magister. There’s a wedding to attend tomorrow.” 

 

**THE END of BOOK ONE.**


End file.
